


Blade, Book, Bentley: A Nice and Accurate AU

by B_H_Castle, Midnight_Scrivener



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Repression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, General Buffoonery, M/M, Role Reversal, Roleswap, and all around clowndom, idiocy, made somehow even more ridiculous than before, the grand 6000 year slowburn, warnings for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2020-08-12 23:56:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 69,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20164747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_H_Castle/pseuds/B_H_Castle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight_Scrivener/pseuds/Midnight_Scrivener
Summary: The apocalypse has come early. A missing Sword and a stolen tome are the first dominoes dropped in a winding trail that will ultimately culminate in the world going up in holy flames. And what stands between us and total immolation? A reluctant Demon, a crotchety Angel, and six millennia worth of unaddressed emotional baggage.... We don't stand a chance, do we?





	1. Blade, Book, Bentley

A Narrative of Certain Events occurring in a Near Parallel Timeline a Decade Prior to the Last Eleven Years of Human History, in Strict Accordance as shall be Shewn with

The (Near Parallel) Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter

(witch)

Compiled and Edited cooperatively by Middy Scrivener and B. H. Castle With fact-checking and Fresh eyes provided by Brevity Is

Mandatory Disclaimer

Bringing about a Near Parallel Armageddon (or even a Near Parallel pre-Armageddon) can be dangerous. Do not attempt it in your own home.


	2. Dramatis Personae

(in an order of entirely ineffable origin)

**Supernatural Entities**

God 

(God)

(not often heard. Even less often seen. Always Observing)

Gabriel 

(the Archangel Gabriel. Capital A. the capital is rather important. The sort of boss who enjoys power given to him far too thoroughly, and who is universally disliked by the minority of employees with a stitch of common sense)

Michael 

(the Archangel Michael. Gabriel’s Right hand)

Uriel 

(the Archangel Uriel. Spymaster)

Sandalphon 

(the Archangel Sandalphon. Head Enforcer. Likes fire to an… odd degree for an Angel)

Crowley 

(a Demon who did not so much Rise as… swim, frantically, breathlessly upwards)

Satan 

(A Fallen Angel. The Adversary)

Beelzebub

(A Likewise Fallen Angel and Prince of Hell)

Dagon

(A Likewise Fallen Angel and Lord of the Files)

Hastur

(A Likewise Fallen Angel and Duke of Hell. Vaguely amphibious)

Ligur

(A Likewise Fallen Angel and Duke of Hell. Likes Chameleons)

Azrafell

(an Angel for whom falling is not quite the proper descriptor. Part-time rare book thief and dealer of occult memorabilia)

**Humans**

Madame Tracy

(Proxy rare book enthusiast. Medium by trade.)

Anathema Device

(Great-great-great-great-great granddaughter of Agnes Nutter)

Agnes Nutter

(Witch. Author of the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, the worst-selling book in all of publishing history)

Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery-Pulsifer

(Author of the second least successful book in all of publishing history. A moderately competent witchfinder)

Sword Lesbians

(Sword Lesbians. History enthusiasts)

Squire Edmund Pulsypher/Pulsiferre

(a young gentleman Doing His Best in a fraught, feudal society)

Julius Caesar 

(Roman Emperor. A tactical Genius with such genius in tactics that he set his own boats alight)

Arthurs

(berks. One or two have a ‘brand of a kyng’ for a while)

Dierdre

(A very, Very patient woman)

Seth Bullock

(Reluctant lawman and Hardware store entrepreneur)

Sol Star

(Mister Bullock's business partner and likewise reluctant lawman)

Al Swearingen

(Hotelier, bartender, casino owner, Brothel manager, drug lord, and human refuse)

Lilith Device

(A woman doing what she needs to survive in an unkind world)

A chorus of other men, women, and Children making up the background noise of London, England, and indeed the World, 

And,

Monty

(a moderately sized python, centenarian, and bedrock of emotional stability)


	3. It begins, as it will one day end, in a Garden

“You do realize what you’ve done?” the Archangel Gabriel asked. It was a rhetorical question, of course. Gabriel’s questions were always rhetorical. “You idiot, idiot Principality?”

Aziraphale didn’t look up from his feet. He hadn’t meant anything by it, he wanted to say. They’d just looked so cold, you see, and what was one sword, in the scheme of things?

“War. Humans were never meant to have it. It wasn’t in the  _ Plan.  _ But… now they do, I suppose, so  _ that’s  _ going to be a major pain in my wing to restructure. The paperwork alone.” Gabriel raised his eyes heavenward, as though pleading for mercy from the concept of bureaucracy. 

Aziraphale bit his lip very hard. This, he thought, was the  _ nightmare scenario. _

Gabriel seemed unruffled by the Angel’s distress, but the other Entity in the Garden couldn’t help but take note.

The serpent poked his head out of one of the nearby trees, right next to Aziraphale. With a quick flick of its tongue it made its way down to the ground. "Well this is an unwelcome surprise," he drawled as he shifted into the appropriate form. "What's he going on about, Angel?"

Aziraphale looked over at him, and upon recognizing the demon, just about melted into a small pond of relief. Imagine that: relieved to see a  _ demon! _ “Oh, Crawley. Yes, um. Yes, well you see Gabriel here just happened to notice that a, um, lion had been slain by a, um. Sword. A flaming one. And he made the not unreasonable deduction that a flaming sword must come from  _ somewhere,  _ mustn't it? And—”

“Ah. right.” Gabriel smiled at Crawley. Well, technically it was a smile. But his eyes were empty and mirthless. “Crawley. Crawley? Is that really what you’re calling yourself these days?” He paused, but as the question was rhetorical, not long enough to allow for an answer. “Ew. Well,  _ Crawley, _ Head Office wants me to give you a, uh… pat on the back. Metaphorically. Not literally, thank God.”

"Do they now? I'm touched, really. Couldn't think of a better compliment."

“Lucky for you, you don’t have to. Your little mind might melt. Giving people Morality, it turns out, was good. Not just good, actually. Very Good. Good enough to get you…” Gabriel’s mouth twisted, and he shuddered, heather-gray wings shaking as though caught in a gust. “Forgiven.”

Airaphale’s face lit up, fear giving way to a warmth and joy that Crawley had never seen on… anyone’s face before, really. He didn’t know you could be that joyful. “Oh, Crawley, that’s wonderful!”

The demon frowned. "What do you mean 'forgiven'? The Almighty doesn't forgive bad Angels, or else we wouldn't have Fallen in the first place."

Gabriel clapped his hands together. “You are the first! Good for you, congratulations, and all that. See, it's a real problem for your people when a Demon does such a  _ radical _ act of Good. Just like it's a problem for our office when a supposed Angel acts in the interest of evil. So. There’s been some shuffling of employment.” Gabriel’s eyes, cold, and purple, and cruel despite their Goodness, fell upon Aziraphale. 

"Oh," Crawley said, eyes widening. 

And just like that, the light in Aziraphale’s face drained away, replaced with a sickly pallor. “And I'm… No. Oh, no.”

“No,” Crawley agreed. “I think, ah, I'm okay where I am, thank you. I made my trouble, Angel boy here ensured the survival of the new creations, we're fine. Really. You can go without doing...that. No need to switch here."

“Oh, but there is. Lord Beelzebub and I agree, for once, that such treason simply can't go unpunished. We signed the paperwork already. This announcement is really just a formality.”

The smell of sulfur fouled the sweet air of Eden like a corpse fouls a spring. Crawley and Aziraphale turned to see Hastur and Ligur, Dukes of Hell, stalking towards them. 

“Oh, Gabriel please, you can’t—you musn’t!” Aziraphale said, though Crawley couldn’t help noticing that the Angel held his ground. “I shan’t ever do Evil again, it was an honest mistake! I thought I was being kind!”

“Unfortunately, that’s just not a risk we can afford to take.” Gabriel shrugged. 

Hastur grabbed the left wing, Ligur the right. For some reason, Aziraphale looked to Crawley. And for some reason, Crawley didn’t look away. 

The Demons pulled. 

Bones cracked. 

Aziraphale screamed. 

Crawley could do nothing as he watched Aziraphale pulled back over the green, perfect grass. His heels began to leave scorch marks as he and his new employers reached the edge of a grim, fuming chasm that rent Eden’s earth. 

Hastur and Ligur stepped into it, tugging Aziraphale along with them. 

The chasm closed up, and Crowley shook his head to clear the afterimage of Aziraphale’s terrified eyes from his mind.  _ Wouldn't it be funny,  _ he'd said, up on the wall,  _ if we both got it wrong?  _ Funny indeed.

“Now that that unpleasantness is out of the way,” Gabriel said. He turned to Crawley. “Let’s figure out what to do with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-Daa! This is what's pulled me away from Between the Devil and the Dark for so long! This was a blast to write, and we're going to try and have a new chapter to you fairly often. This bad boy is finished but for a few final edits, so getting it to you in a timely manner shouldn't be any kind of a thing. Enjoy!


	4. Book, Bentley, Bicycle

It was a relatively warm evening, warm for London anyway. Just warm enough to make the layers of Crowley's suit uncomfortable. Not that he ever wore all of them at once. He did, however, keep them close. Gabriel nagged him constantly about presentation, and if there was anything Crowley hated more than unnecessary layers, it was the sound of the Archangel's voice. He slid out of his gleaming white Bentley, his pride and joy, tossed his cream colored coat over one shoulder and sauntered his way up to the bookstore with no regard for the "closed" sign on the door. 

"Zira," he called, loosening his bright red tie and making himself at home on one of the loveseats scattered about the shop. "Please, for the love of all that is holy, talk to me about something more interesting than the divine. I'm  _ bored _ ." He was lanky man, the fact only exacerbated by the position he'd thrown himself into. Soft red waves rested on the arm of the couch, half up half down, and golden eyes sparkling with mischief peered under equally metallic decoration. They were lined with a wicked golden cat eye that trailed into lazy serpentine designs that disappeared into his hairline. Not that anyone would see these designs, though. Though his clothes were clean and professional, somehow he added an air of dishevelment to them that worked in his favor.

“Azrafell, Crowley,” the owner of the bookshop said, with the air of someone who had said it countless times, and knew he’d have to say it countless more. He emerged from the back, manicured hands with slightly too-long, too-thick nails snapping closed an old, leather-bound tome. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of tea?” He was dressed to the nines, as he always was. His suit was perhaps a decade or ten out of date, but he either didn't know, or didn't care. White, curling hair was tied up in a loose knot, and his black suit was freshly pressed. He looked archly at Crowley, speaking around a mouthful of teeth that anyone, if they were to really See them, would realize were alarmingly large. And sharp.

"Not this time," Crowley said as he pulled out a small silvery flask. "I've brought my own."

“Hm,” Azrafell said, pale eyes of an unnatural blue sweeping him from head to toe. He turned to head back to his small kitchenette. “What have I told you about using the front door during the day? The way you look, people might think I run a reputable business.”

Crowley snorted and took a swig. "Please. In that car? I look like a well to do pimp. Did I tell you that I tried to wear navy to a meeting the other day?"

“You didn’t. I imagine Gabriel materialised in a fit of apoplectic rage that you’d dare break his color scheme.” Azrafell emerged from the back, a steaming mug in one hand. He sat in a lavish black leather wingback, crossing his legs. With a snap of his fingers, a fire started crackling away in the wood stove in the corner.

"He did that thing where he talks to you like you're an inanimate object for an hour, while smiling like he sat on a stick."

“Mm. I remember that expression well. One of the few nice things about Hell is that I never have to look at him anymore.” Azrafell sipped delicately from his mug. “If I did, I think I might just claw that grin off his face.”

"I'd love to see that," Crowley muttered. "How's ole Bugbrain? Still as expressionless as I remember?"

“Utterly bland. I don’t think they like me very much, for some reason. Are you still doing that… garden thing?”

He sipped. "They don't like anyone. Not even themselves. And yeah. It's therapeutic...supposedly."

Azrafell looked at the Angel, halfway between a frown and a smile. "Do you… see a therapist, Crowley?"

"If by ‘see,’ you mean go once every four months and rant about my life in a code no human has even a prayer at understanding, then yes." Crowley smirked. "It's hilarious to see them try and suss it all out, really. It's more or less just something to do."

Azrafell's expression turned wry as he sipped from his mug. "Now, that's not a very Angelic thing to say."

"Well, I'm a bad Angel. Or so I've been told. It's kind of hard to know how to act when you've played both sides of the board, Zira." He paused and took a long draft.

"Oh, I'm aware. So long as you don't do anything kind, i think you'll be safe." Azrafell smiled mirthlessly. "So. You said you wanted entertainment?"

" _ Please _ ."

“ _ Twelfth Night  _ is in previews at the National Theatre. I  _ could _ procure us some tickets,” Azrafell said. “I know how you like his funny ones.”

Crowley grinned. "I'll drive."

“Since you offered. Why not? But.” A finger rose into the air in a way that Crowley knew would precede some sort of condition. “I do have to ask you to make a pitstop along the way,” Azrafell said. 

"We aren't going bookshopping, are we?" Crowley groaned.

“Who said anything about shopping? I was just going to take it.” Azrafell’s mouth quirked in a dry smile. 

"For heaven's sake Zira, I swear you'll get me cast out again." His words lacked bite, however, and he downed the rest of his drink. "Right, let's go."

Azrafell grinned and stood, extinguishing the small hellfire with another snap. “After you.”

#

Crowley was a good driver, in a way. He was good at weaving through traffic, at finding the quickest route. He was skilled. But not careful. This, of course, earned him many an angry horn or curse from other drivers. "So. Where are we off to?"

“A lovely young woman just checked into the Savoy,” Azrafell said. “Surname Device.”

The name tickled something in the back of Crowley's mind. Some bit of distant familiarity. But he shook it off. "I won't ask how you know. What's the plan then? Seduce her with your overwhelming occult knowledge into just...handing it over?"

“Oh, goodness no. She’d never go for it, the dear. She’s a  _ Device _ , Crowley, of the Nutter-Devices. I wager she’s far too savvy to let me get so much as a word in. I shall have to do it when she is distracted.”

He shrugged. "If you say so."

Azrafell frowned over at him. “You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you? I know you don’t read, but surely.” 

"I...uh...no, no not at all."

Azrafell rolled his eyes. “There is one book of Prophecy that I have any interest in. Most of them are rubbish, you understand. But one book has a success rate of one-hundred per-cent, and it is currently sitting in a safe in the Savoy. Agnes Nutter was the last witch burnt in England, and quite possibly the only real one they ever caught. It was thought that no copies of her book were left in existence.” Azrafell’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment something predatory gleamed deep in their pale expanse. “But apparently there is one. And I want it.”

Crowley looked the demon over slowly with his golden gaze and cocked an eyebrow. "I can see that." There was a particularly loud honk from outside, startling Crowley from whatever road his mind was wandering down with a hiss.

“Watch the road, angel,” Azrafell murmured. But it was clear his own thoughts wasn’t really in the present either. He examined his claws.

"Don't call me that."

The Demon smiled.

#

“Park on top of that bicycle,” Azrafell said, as they came in view of the front of the hotel. He pointed at a small, plain bike, left temporarily on a curb by the front of the hotel.

"On top of it? And scratch the car?!"

“Oh, you can miracle it back to mint condition.”

"You  _ do _ remember that I'm supposed to be a good guy, right? Holier than thou, righteousness and all? I don't think crushing a Bicycle in aid of a thief falls into that category."

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Azrafell sighed. “You can miracle it back too. A little temporary vandalism never hurt anybody. And really,” he added. “This is in aid of removing a dangerous magical tool from humanity's hands. On a grander scale, you’re  _ helping  _ the little buggers.”

"Yeah, but I'll have to suffer through another lecture from the lead dickhead himself," Crowley whined. One look at Azrafell's dry expression, however, had him switching the car back into gear. "Fine. But you owe me big time."

Azrafell grinned with huge teeth. “I think we can arrange something.”

"Mm." With a rev of the engine and a wince, Crowley drove his car over the bike. A piece of his redeemed soul died as he heard the grind of metal on metal. "I'm sorry."

To his credit, Azrafell patted Crowley’s shoulder, the closest he came to a verbal thank you, before getting out of the car. 

He walked into the hotel like a man used to the high life, grabbing a wide-brimmed hat off of a stack of luggage to hide his face as he disappeared deeper into the building. 

Azrafell may not have been an exemplary demon in all aspects of his life, but he  _ was  _ an exemplary thief. 

No sooner had Azrafell vanished from sight than a young woman in large glasses and a peacock blue coat flew out of the doors, dark hair flowing behind her. Her hand flew to her mouth as she surveyed the damage. “Oh, come  _ on!”  _ she moaned, accent distinctly American. 

When she clocked Crowley, still behind the wheel, her eyes narrowed. “Hey, asshole,” she snapped. “Watch where you park!” 

Crowley stepped out of the car, looking as innocent and haggard as he could. "Sorry, I guess I just wasn't paying a-"

She kicked the tire of the Bentley, ineffectively.

"Hey! Hey now, violence isn't going to solve anything! You'll break a toe kicking it like that!"

She turned to him, cheeks flushed with anger, and looked him head to toe with a piercing gaze. She paused. “‘A shocke of red spilleth from Heav’n’s Chariot White,’” she murmured, as though reciting something by heart.

"I beg your pardon?"

“It’s something my great-great-great-great-great grandmother said,” she murmured, looking from Crowley to his car. “‘When two rings lay broken on twisted frayme, and a shocke of red spilleth from Heav’n’s Chariot White, thine eyes hath strayed too loung from what is held most deare to thee… Anathema…’” Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, the book.” Her face suddenly bloodless and gray, she turned to make a break for the doors.

Crowley hissed an unintelligible stream of stuttering syllables and snapped his fingers, freezing the young woman before she had a chance to bolt. "Now," he murmured, glancing around to make sure no one was watching too closely. "Before you go running off, let's talk about the damage I've done to your property, yeah?"

“Oh. My bike,” she said, face suddenly slack. Her glasses sat crooked on the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Shoot.”

"Now this can be a pretty easy fix, if you give me a bit of time. I can have it as good as new, even better. But you have to be patient...tell me about this grandmother of yours." He reached forward and righted her glasses, attempting to make the conversation seem as normal as possible. Considering one of them was the equivalent of a sentient mannequin, it was difficult. But falsehoods came fairly easy to Crowley, even after ascension. If only his clothes weren't so damn bright.

“Agnes? She was a witch. A real one, you know? But her real gift was ForeSight. No one else has ever had it the way she did. She just always knew what was going to happen. And she wrote it down.” The young woman’s eyes, to Crowley’s shock, strayed from his, going back to the mangled bicycle. “That doesn’t look like an easy fix.”

"I'm something of a miracle worker. Now, what did she mean by the...thing you said earlier? The white chariot bit?"

“Well, she was working with the vocabulary she had. Chariot usually means car, so we figured it was something to do with a white car. And Heaven’s Chariot… we thought maybe a priest owned it? And Anathema is me, so I knew I was a part of it. But sometimes it’s hard to know what the prophecies are about until after they’ve come true. This one was especially vague.” Anathema looked back at Crowley and shrugged. “Are you? A priest?” 

This was another oddity. People in the Trance were not meant to ask questions.

"Of...sorts," he mumbled, looking her over. "Are you feeling alright?"

She nodded, smiling a little. “Mm-hm.” 

"Okay...well, look," he said, waving a hand behind him when the coast was clear. The sound of reshaping metal was just a little louder than he would have liked. "I'm going to give this back to you. I suggest you park it away from traffic. And when you wake up…oh...I don't know, you'll remember going on a walk for some fresh air. Alone. You won't remember me, or any of this. Got it?"

She nodded, and took the bike as he wheeled it to her. “You even fixed the hole in the seat cover,” she murmured. 

Over her shoulder, Crowley saw the hotel doors open before a familiar dark suit. Azrafell was walking quickly, but he was smiling. 

"Right, okay, I'm going to go now. Take care, Miss...whatever your name was." With that, the Angel quickly ducked into his car, waiting for Azrafell to join him.

Anathema shook her head, groggily. She looked down at the bicycle in her grasp, then around at the front of the hotel, her eyes skimming over Crowley as though he were invisible. She turned to wheel her bike away…

And came chest-to chest with Azrafell. The demon recovered from his momentary startlement. “Miss Device,” he said. “Feeling quite well?”

She nodded, her eyes skating away from his like any human's would upon meeting his gaze. She frowned. “How do you know my name?”

Azrafell just winked at her, going to the passenger door of the Bentley and sliding in.

"About time you showed up," Crowley growled, snapping his fingers as he peeled away in a miraculously restored vehicle.

“Excuse you, I was remarkably quick,” Azrafell said. “And you and the young Device seemed to be getting on rather well.”

"I should have let her come in after you and catch you. You're lucky I like you, Azrafell."

“Oh, I’m sure,” Azrafell said. “That was kind of you, to keep her there.” 

Crowley simply ground his teeth and drove.

#

The play was good. Almost good enough that Crowley could forget his simmering anger at the Demon beside him. Even though said Demon had gotten them box seats. The Arrangement was one thing, but actively assisting Azrafell to do Evil? He was an Angel, for heaven’s sake! He’d already Fallen once. He didn’t know what happened to you if you Fell a second time. Probably nothing good.

Azrafell didn’t seem to pay much attention to the play. He kept running his fingers lightly over an object hidden away in his coat. 

What was the deal with that book? Azrafell hadn’t looked so covetous of a Tome since Alexandria. In fact remembering Alexandria was partially what made Crowley compel Anathema to stay in the first place.

He wondered if Azrafell knew that.

#

As they left the theater, Azrafell looked up at the black night sky. That was one of the things he disliked most about London. Its ever-present light ate up the stars. 

"I'm gonna head back to my place," Crowley said, a little absently. "I'm tired. Thanks for the night."

“Mm…” Azrafell glanced over at the Angel. “Are you quite all right?”

"Great. Goodnight Azrafell. Enjoy the book." He offered the demon a lazy salute as he walked to his car.

Azrafell watched Crowley saunter away, the unspoken implication that the Demon was not welcome in the Bentley tonight hanging heavy in the air. 

He frowned thoughtfully, and his jaw worked once. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know we said that we'd try to update often. Then life hit like a truck. But we're hoping to get the final edits done soon so that we can get the rest of this bad boy up ASAP. For now, here's the best installment. Thank you for your patience. Enjoy!


	5. Alexandria

It was hot. Ridiculously so, but then again desert cities tended to be. At least Alexandria had a sea breeze.  
Crowley was wandering the bustling streets, the back of his long red curls were plastered to tunic, his feet were dusty and he was tired. He'd been keeping a fairly low profile recently during his time on Earth, some part of him still trying to adjust to his transition. There were moments when he still felt the need to avert his gaze from the curious public for fear of frightening them, though it was more of a reflex than anything.  
He liked the city. It was vibrant and full of life, the humans were amicable enough and the booze was passable. At one point there had been a number of particularly curious humans that he'd helped with their studies of the cosmos. But that was years ago.  
He'd gotten word that the Romans were making their way here, and Gabriel had made sure to emphasise that Evil was sure to follow. So here Crowley was, seeking out wiles to thwart. He wasn't quite sure what to expect, but considering the Roman army's reputation, it wouldn't be hard to miss.  
Was it getting hotter?  
When the first person sprinted past Crowley, heading away from the docks, he thought it was odd.  
After about the fifteenth, he was worried.  
A cry of “Fire! Fire! The fleet is on fire!” began to echo through the streets.  
His steps stuttered and for a moment he stood still amongst the growing crowd of fleeing people, debating if he should join them. Images of darker times flashed in his mind, making it harder and harder to breathe. Crowley knew this feeling. He hated this feeling. But now the ground was beginning to feel less stable and he-  
Someone shoved him to the side in their haste, knocking him from his stupor. He could still feel the rock in the pit of his stomach, waiting to spread and take everything from him, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward, following the growing scent of smoke with a sinking feeling in his chest.  
The fire, Crowley would later learn, had been started by Caesar, to end the Egyptian blockade of his vessels. It was a tactical choice, made either in spite of or without consideration of the wind blowing towards the shore.  
Sparks had jumped from Caesar’s boats to the Egyptians’.  
More sparks had jumped from there to land.  
But Crowely didn’t have that context.  
All he saw was flame.  
People were screaming and practically running each other into the dirt to get away. Ir was madness and Crowley hated it. giving himself a moment to calm the tide of fear that threatened to burst from his chest, he rushed forward and began helping those who had been knocked down by the stampede.  
Little miracles made his fingers tingle as they flowed from him, righting twisted ankles and scraped knees, restoring lost breath so that the runners could begin moving again.  
An older man in the fine robes of an academic sobbed into Crowley’s chest. “The scrolls! Oh, the scrolls are lost!”  
"What are you talking about?" he shouted, mostly occupied with trying to find a safe way out for him and the human.  
“The Library,” the man gasped. “Oh, gods preserve us, the Library is alight!”  
That was new. Crowley's eyes snapped down towards the man and them off over the city. He could see another plume of smoke billowing. With a growled curse and a tug, he helped the older man to safety before bolting down the street.  
He had steeled himself preemptively against the sights and smells of the blaze. The wounded, fleeing victims, the heat and destruction.  
One thing he hadn’t expected to see was… Aziraphale? The former Angel walked calmly away from the fire, in dark gray clothes that somehow seemed free of stain from smoke or soot. Gone was the cheerful aspect and cherubic smile. His eyes were pale and hard, and his hands were tipped in black, wicked claws.  
Crowley skidded to a halt, hands still shaking as he took in the scene. Flames licked up the marble columns of the building in the background, their soot and smoke staining the pristine white facade. It was more than a little unsettling to see...him walking out of it. It was hard to believe that the same Angel he'd met all those years ago, griping about giving his sword away, was at the forefront such destruction.  
Aziraphale frowned, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Crawley?” he called, over the roar of the flames. “Crawley, is that you, old chap? Fancy seeing you again. Here, of all places.” He hefted a bag over one shoulder. It looked full.  
Crowley blinked, mouth hanging open just slightly as he stuttered. "I, uh...Crowley" is what he finally managed to say. "It's Crowley now. Wha...what are you…"  
“Little rescue mission,” Aziraphale said, shrugging the shoulder with the bag hanging from it. He smiled.  
"...rescue?" Crowley said.  
“I couldn’t just leave all those wonderful scrolls to burn, could I? Centuries of accumulated knowledge, scorched to ash. Imagine.”  
"Right. Yeah. So, you didn't do this?"  
“How little you must think of me,” Aziraphale scoffed. “I don’t strike the matches of men for them.”  
"So you're… helping?" Crowley was having a hard time wrapping his head around it all. Here he was, a former Demon, stalling with another Demon who apparently wasn't doing any outright evil as one of the greatest collections of knowledge human history had seen burned to ashes in front of him. His hands felt clammy as he turned his gaze to the flame. He knew there wasn't anything he could do, not like this. Not with all that fire. "That's hard to believe."  
"Helping might be a strong word," Aziraphale said, inspecting his claws.  
So stealing then. Crowley sighed and ran a hand down his face. He had to do something. "You know I can't let you take those."  
"Really, Angel?" Aziraphale said. "You'd fight me over a few scraps of parchment at the cost of saving human life?" The Demon frowned sternly. "Come now. Think of the Greater Good."  
"Crowley," the Angel snarled. "It's...forget it, just take your bloody scrolls, Aziraphale." He shoved past towards the library, using his anger and frustration to try and drown out the fear  
Before he could get too far away, he was halted in his tracks as two men in the uniform of the city guard charged around the corner, spears at the ready. "Stop!" One shouted. "Stop! Thieves!"  
Aziraphale looked from the guards to Crowley and back, dripping skepticism. "Really? You think he looks capable of theft?"  
Crowley glared and held out his empty hands. "Not a thief, just here to help. He has your stuff."  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Angels."  
The guard looked at Aziraphale - though not, Crowley noticed, at his eyes - and hefted his spear. "Drop the scrolls."  
"No."  
"What did you just say to me?"  
Aziraphale smiled, even and white and deceptively charming. "No."  
The guards began to advance.  
"Galinus, isn't it?" Aziraphale asked.  
One of the guards hesitated. "Shut up!"  
"Have you ever looked at infinity, Galinus?"  
"...w-what?"  
"Of course not, your paltry mortal mind would shatter from the sheer scale." Aziraphale paused. And he smiled wider. "Would you like to get close?"  
"Stop talking!" The other guard said.  
"Stop walking, Pollus," Aziraphale purred back. "And See me."  
The guards stopped, finding their gazes slowly, inexorably drawn to the Demon's. As they stared at Azrafell, at his pale and endless eyes, Galinus collapsed to his knees. Pollus began to weep, swaying slightly side to side.  
"We should go," the Demon murmured to Crowley.  
The Angel was looking on with mild shock, mouth open as if he was just about to say something. "You...you can't just...no!" He managed after a moment. "Absolutely not!"  
"Well. I'm going," Aziraphale said. Behind him, Pollus whimpered. "Come with or not."  
Crowley felt sick. Between the smoke and the Demon he couldn't think straight. His heart was pounding, he was covered in sweat and it was still too damn hot. Casting on more glance over his shoulder at the fiery mess that was once the great library, Crowley turned to head down the street away from Aziraphale "Congrats. you can have this one."  
Aziraphale paused. Then he shrugged. "Take what I can get, I suppose. Oh, and Crowley?"  
"What?"  
"It's Azrafell, these days."  
"Right. My bad."  
Azrafell hesitated a moment more, as though there was something he wanted to say. But in the end he just shrugged and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First flashback of the story for our boys! You'll get to know a little more about them and how they felt about each other post-reassignment.


	6. Foul Dreams, Fouler News, and a Mostly Tolerable Brunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stress, stress and more stress

Truth be told, supernatural entities didn't really need sleep. It's just something to pass the time. That being said, this did not exempt them from the occasional night terror. Crowley awoke to the feeling of his skin burning, his wings breaking and the faint smell of sulfur in the air. It had been almost a century and a half since he'd dreamt of the Fall, but the imagery was as vivid as always. He could still hear the wind rushing past his ears, drowning out his cries for help.  
With a grunt and a sigh, Crowley hauled himself out of bed. "Hate that," he muttered, grabbing his blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders.  
His house was the one place he could allow any sort of color to exist without his boss giving him a condescending talking to, so he took advantage. The walls were dark and grey while his decorations and bedding ranged from forest greens to deep mahogany. He preferred natural, warm colors. It was much more inviting than the gleaming white and metallic display in Heaven.  
He shuffled his way through the apartment to his greenhouse, breathing in the humid air with something akin to reverence. This was where the Angel spent most of his time at home, talking with them, watering them, making sure all was well. Making sure they got the treatment he almost wished he'd gotten upon his return to ethereality.  
Quiet and brooding, he shambled through the rows of green. Maybe it wasn't so bad, helping Azrafell. After all, the humans shouldn't have access to that kind of knowledge, right? The ineffable was ineffable for a reason. Still...Crowley shuddered to think about what would happen if Hell got ahold of that book, if what Azrafell said was true. Considering his former demonic station, it wasn't hard to imagine the possibilities.  
Maybe he could convince the Demon to lock it away. He seemed more keen on the possession of the book rather than its contents. Maybe that would be enough…  
Crowley sighed, sinking down onto a bench and cradling his head in his hands. It was going to be a long night.

#

Crowley had yet to fall back asleep when the sun began to filter in through the windows. A new day, a fresh start.  
Yeah, sure.  
He was pruning away some aging limbs from his judas thorn, one of his rarer acquisitions, when his phone rang. He nearly let it go to the machine, but picked it up at the last moment.  
"Crowley," Azrafell purred, sounding genuinely pleased. "I'm glad I caught you."  
"What is it, Azrafell? Isn't it a little early to be calling?"  
"It… It's ten thirty, angel." There was a pause. "Listen. It occurred to me that I may have crossed a line, pulling you into a temptation outside the bounds of our… thing. And I am…" He paused once more. "Sorry."  
"...I told you not to call me that," was all Crowley muttered, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder.  
"I'll stop with the nicknames when you do. I think it's endearing. Anyway, as the beginnings of a proper apology, I believe some form of reparations are in order. Please, allow me to tempt you to brunch."  
"Temptation's what got us in this mess in the first place."  
"Perhaps." Azrafell sounded disappointed, Crowley realized. And not just by the prospect of a lost brunch. The Demon was perfectly capable of going out on his own. This was something else.  
Crowley set his shears down with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Well I...Don't...shit. Fine, fine, just...Just give me an hour. I've gotta get dressed."  
"Marvelous," Azrafell said. "See you then."  
"Yeah, yeah," Crowley grumbled. He closed his eyes and hung up a little more forcefully than absolutely necessary. "I'm sorry, loves," he murmured to his plants as he gathered up his blanket cape. "I'll be back later."  
"Where are you going?" the Archangel Gabriel asked.  
Crowley yelped in probably one of the least dignified ways of all recorded history. His blanket dropped to his hips, revealing his black tank top and checkered briefs before he caught it. "Gabriel! Hi!" His voice cracked a little as he tried to find the appropriate tone. "What, um...what are you doing here? In my house?"  
"I think the more pertinent question here is what are you wearing?" Gabriel looked Crowley from head to bare toe, one eyebrow rising. "The clothes are one of the few good things Humanity brings to the table. The least you could do is use them properly."  
The Angel's expression deadpanned. "I just woke up. Did you come to tell me something, or will this just be another judgment of my fashion sense?"  
Gabriel frowned. "You sleep?" He shook his head. "Never mind, we can put a pin in that. Head Office needs you to find something."  
"Like...what?" Crowley asked. His heart dropped a little.  
"A powerful relic. It went missing sometime in the past couple of days. If Hell got their hands on it, well. Let's just say it wouldn't be pretty."  
It dropped another level. "Where was it?"  
"No one knows. The location is hidden from Heaven and Hell, but in it is contained more power than humanity really ought to have." Gabriel shrugged. "But what can you do?"  
Oh, no. "W-well, where is this relic from?"  
"That's the nice thing for you. As far as I can ascertain, it's been local for a good while."  
Crowley's heart hit rock bottom. He was going to give Azrafell a piece of his mind. "Well," he said, doing his best to feign ignorance. "There are a lot of things like that. What are we talking about here? Specifically?"  
"A sword. The Sword, actually. It's just… up and gone."  
Crowley froze. "...Wait. The Sword? The great flaming thing that Az-...Adam and Eve had?"  
"No, the other the Sword," Gabriel drawled. He rolled his lilac eyes. "Just find it, would you? I'm sure Hell is looking for it too. You do realize it's not just a flaming sword anymore, right? Or do I have to explain that to you too?"  
"I know what the sword is, Gaberiel. I'm not a complete idiot."  
Gabriel's stare turned icy. "Could have fooled me. Just find it. Or I'll send Michael and Sandalphon to make sure you do it properly."  
With a crack of thunder and a flash of light bright enough to make even Crowley's divine eyes sting, he vanished.  
The flowers of Crowley's angel's trumpet, which had bloomed in the moonlight last night, were left shrivelled and stunned by the blast.  
With a growl and a wave of his hand, he miracled them back to health before rushing to his room to change.  
#  
The Bentley pulled up to the bookshop with a roar, narrowly missing the curb. Crowley didn't bother leaving the car, he knew Azrafell could hear it.  
The door opened, but it wasn't Azrafell who initially emerged. A man in all black, with a fedora, a briefcase, and a singed eyebrow, stumbled down the steps. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he staggered away.  
Azrafell, moving at a leisurely pace, strolled out behind him. Locking the shop with a snap of his fingers, he stepped up to the Bentley and settled in. "Damned mob…" he said, casually. When he saw Crowley, he frowned. "What happened to you?"  
"Rough night." He glanced about the road over his golden aviators before pulling out into traffic.  
"Do you plan on elaborating, or am I doomed to remain in suspense?"  
"Nothing interesting about it," Crowley said casually. "Just bad dreams."  
"I didn't know Angels could have those," Azrafell murmured. He frowned, but looked back out at the road.  
"Guess I'm a special case then."  
"I'd wager so," Azrafell agreed.  
"Where are we going?"  
"Your pick. My apology, after all." Azrafell smiled at him, a small expression.  
"Mm. All right then." The Angel made a sharp right and sped off down the road.  
#  
They ended up at a small, two story building, quaint in design and nestled in between apartment complexes. Without a word to his company, Crowley slid out of the car and adjusted his suit jacket.  
"Hm," Azrafell said, as he got out of the car, claws tapping on the gleaming white metal. "I would have thought this demure for your usual tastes, Crowley."  
"Well, I I like a lot of things." He glanced over at the demon before sauntering up to the door.  
Azrafell followed, giving both Crowley and the building one more curious once-over before stepping inside.  
Once inside, Crowley slipped the hostess a large, bronze coin. "Upstairs, if it's available."  
She nodded. "This way, gentlemen." Turning, she beckoned them down the hall.  
He shoved the coin and his hands in his pockets before following.  
"How very clandestine," Azrafell murmured. "I'm almost offended you haven't shown me this before."  
"There hasn't been a reason to. I found it in the nineties. It's Actually where I picked up my Jellyfish Tree." He glanced back at the demon. " don't go stealing it from me, all right? This is my spot."  
"I would never. Your secret is safe with me."  
Crowley nodded.  
The young woman led them up a narrow flight of stairs to a warped hardwood door. "A server will be with you shortly," she said, opening the door and stepping inside to let them through.  
It was a small room for restaurant, only two booths on opposite ends and a tiny bar in the center. The afternoon light drifted down on the hardwood from a window towards the front of the room, overlooking the street. It was quiet and calming in its atmosphere, and Crowley immediately felt just a little more at ease. He sank into one of the booths and gestured for Azrafell to do the same.  
Azrafell lingered at the door a moment, looking around at the room, and then looking at Crowley as though he'd realized something. He sat across from Crowley and picked up a menu.  
The Angel didn't need to, he knew what he wanted. He was too lost in thought anyway. Instead he began fiddling with the coin in his pocket, gazing blankly into the middle distance though his glasses.  
Azrafell hummed. "Have you had the apple tart?"  
"...have you had a visit from you boss recently?" Crowley asked, ignoring the question entirely. He turned his gaze lazily to Azrafell and propped his cheek on his hand. "Answer me truthfully, now. I'll know if you're lying."  
"Please, would I lie to you?" Azrafell muttered. He still hadn't looked up from the menu. "Yes, I think the tart… no, Beelzebub hasn't graced me with their presence of late. They usually just send Hastur or Ligur, these days."  
"And they haven't come by either?"  
Now Azrafell did look up at him. "No… should they have?"  
"Oh, I don't know," Crowley groaned. He sat back and ran a hand down his face, conflicted. "Maybe? Lord of light, I don't even know if i should be talking about this."  
There was a pause. Azrafell frowned. "Has… Gabriel been by to see you recently?"  
"Right after I hung up. Nearly scared me out of my boxers."  
The frown deepened. "Did he overhear, do you think?"  
"Well I haven't gone snakey again, have I?" Crowley quipped, finally taking off his glasses. "No, I don't think so...he gave me a job, Azrafell."  
"That's… alarmingly hands-on. What's the job?"  
"You aren't gonna like it."  
"It came out of Gabriel's mouth, of course I won't."  
"Yeah, but at this rate your people will put you on it soon enough." Crowley sighed and peered up at him almost apologetically. "Remember that flaming sword you gave away?"  
"You mean the Fiery Blade of the Eastern Gate? The piece of holy steel doused in righteous flame that later became the ephemeral Sword of War and got me damned to Hell for eternity? No, I can't say I do," Azrafell's voice was sardonic, but his eyes were hard. "Remind me."  
Crowley grimaced. "Well, apparently, it's lost. And I have to find it."  
Azrafell was silent for so long Crowley wondered if the Demon had short-circuited. "And if you don't?" he finally asked, quiet and abrupt, breaking the silence like the neck of a small bird. "What then?"  
"He'll send Michael and Sandalphon to do it. With a thinly veiled promise of harsh punishment for me. And, well...you know what he's like."  
Aziraphale grimaced, one hand reaching towards his shoulder for a fraction of a moment. "Yes. I do. So say you do find it. It's Humanity's blade now. Will it be returned to them?"  
"Something tells me that it'll be locked away for the Big plan," Crowley muttered, nodding towards the waiter that just entered.  
"Ah, yes. That." Azrafell grew quiet, and nodded politely to the waiter.  
Dressed all in white, he had a sharp face and a professional bearing. He smiled at Crowley, but couldn't seem to look Azrafell in the eyes. "Gentlemen. How can I serve you today?"  
Crowley held up a finger. "A bottle of the best champagne you've got and an order of crepes for me."  
Azrafell smiled crookedly at Crowley, but just said, "The apple tart, please."  
The server nodded. "Thank you, gentlemen. I'll be right back."  
After he left, Azrafell allowed one eyebrow to climb. "Feeling nostalgic for Paris?"  
"I just know what's good here."  
"Hmm. Do you have any idea where the sword was?" The Demon asked. "Before?"  
"No! I haven't seen that bloody thing since Eden! Too high for my pay grade, apparently. Can't trust the quasi-Angel with that kind of knowledge " his face scrunched up and suddenly he wished he had that champagne. "Oh, but he can be the first to fail at finding it."  
Azrafell watched Crowley's emotions bubble up, cataloguing it away with his eyes. For a loveless creature, he was damnably perceptive regarding feelings. But all he said was, "Do you have any idea where it might be… now?"  
Crowley growled and shoved himself from the booth. "Not a one. All I know is that they outsource that Apocalypse crap, but the group we outsource to is kept very secret for their own protection." The Angel began to pace, wracking his brain for anything. "I doubt it would stay around Eden, Gabriel always thought it was too dusty. And he did say that it had been local for a while. Maybe it… wait." he whirled, slamming his palms on the table. "Your book. The fortune one you made me help you steal. do you have it?"  
"Well. Not on me," Azrafell said. "But in my possession. Where it shall stay, thank you."  
"I don't want to take it, you idiot, I don't have a death wish. I just want to look through it. It can stay in you shop, you can guard it the whole time, but I need to see if it has anything about this damned sword."  
Azrafell looked at Crowley thoughtfully. "You do remember we're supposed to be on opposite sides."  
"I helped you. You owe me."  
"Oh, don't bring debts into this." Azrafell dropped his voice. "Of course I'll help you find the damn thing. But."  
Crowley's eyes rolled. "But?"  
"Hold off on giving it to Heaven right away," Azrafell said. "You can have all the credit, just… sit on it. For a bit."  
"Until what, Heaven steals it from under my nose? They won't wait once I have it and you know it. It'll be the war to end Everything, just without wonderboy to steal the show."  
"No, not until that," Azrafell sighed. "Just… long enough to find where it came from."  
"This is the sword of War we're talking about. The resting place has an Anti-sense …thingy all over it. It could have been anywhere."  
"Well, not just anywhere. It would be somewhere important. Somewhere that mattered."  
"There are places like that all over the world! Six thousand years of important places!"  
"It can't go to Heaven or Hell, Crowley. It simply can't."  
Crowley's face wrinkled as his teeth bared. "I know that."  
"We have to put it back."  
"And then what? Let's say by some miracle we find it and put it back? Both your side and mine aren't gonna be too happy about not having it."  
"What can they do?" Azrafell said. "We deflect blame, put it all on Humanity. There's no crime to punish. I did a bit of reading on the subject, back when I learned that the Horsemen all used handsels in their summoning. Each Handsel has a power of its own, it is true, but part of their purpose is to reject use by all but the one they are handselled to until the proper time. It wants to go home, as it were. Heaven or Hell couldn't command it if they tried."  
Crowley grumbled and ran a hand through his hair as he sunk back into his seat. "Fine. Fine. I just have to find it first."  
"Yes."  
He sighed, drumming his nails on the wooden table. Given that their lifespan was literally an eternity, neither of them really aged. Sure, they adapted to their current era, but overall they kept most of their original youthful charm. Most of the time. Today, Crowley looked...Worn. like a t-shirt washed one too many times. His jaw worked as he stared towards the door, grinding his teeth just lightly enough to not be audible.  
"Crowley," Azrafell said. "Look at me."  
The Angel paused before flicking his golden gaze over.  
"You will be fine. You Fell, and you Rose. Nobody's ever done that. It's unheard of. If you can come through that, this will be like…" he smiled a little. "Angel's food cake. Comparatively."  
"You don't know that," Crowley chuckled dryly. "They could just throw me in a vat of hellfire. Wouldn't mbe of much consequence to them. Or I could Fall again, and who knows what that would do to me on a second go...do you know what color my eyes were before the Fall?"  
"No," Azrafell said. "Never had the pleasure of seeing them."  
"Green. They were green." He said wistfully. "Dark, like pine needles. I was like a damn cherub, without a care in the world." There was a pause before he looked back at Azrafell. "If not all the changes from the first Fall could be reversed, what would I become if it happened again? I could be lucky, turn back into my devilishly handsome self, but...something tells me that wouldn't be the case. I may be wrong, but I don't think even we are made to take that much of a beating."  
"Hopefully it won't come to that, but if anyone can, it's you," Azrafell said. "That thick skull of yours will work to your advantage," he added, gently ribbing.  
Crowley mustered a weak snort. "Maybe it would."  
The conversation came to a halt as the waiter reappeared with their dishes, and Azrafell's eyes lit up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we have been drowning in school work. Sorry about the delay, we are dying a little less now so (maybe?) updates will be a little more regular now. Possibly? We apologize in advance.


	7. Unwelcome Company

When the Bentley pulled to a halt outside the bookshop, Azrafell sat up straight in the passenger seat and sniffed once. His eyes flicked to Crowley. "After I get out, drive around the block," he said softly.  
"Visitors?"  
Azrafell grimaced. "That's one word for them. Wish me luck." He opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. Looking over his shoulder at Crowley, he hesitated for a nearly imperceptible moment before ascending the steps to the shop and vanishing inside.   
#  
The first thing Azrafell noticed was the smell. Noticeable outside, indoors it was nearly a physical entity. Rotten pondscum and sewage. A distinctive cocktail.   
"Hastur," Azrafell said." And Ligur too, I can only assume. To what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen?"  
The pair were Lurking in the shadows of the central room in the store. Hastur with his poorly placed, greasy blond wig was glaring at anything in the vicinity with a look that somehow mixed vague disgust and a ditzy sort of absence. Ligur's hands drifted over a shelf of tomes, leaving a grubby, dirty trail on the spines that stank of unwashed reptile and decay.  
The sight alone nearly drove Azrafell to demonicide.  
"Lord Beelzebub sends their regards," Ligur growled. As he turned, his hand drifted over the potted plant Crowley had given Azrafell. It shrieked at the touch, shrivelling up and blackening with a near imperceptible squeak. "We hear you've been busy."  
"Very busy," Hastur agreed sourly.  
"You might say that," Azrafell said, shoving down the bloom of rage in his chest and trying to think what they could possibly mean. Was it the book? Crowley?  
"It was an… impressive job," Hastur said, face twisting. "There are several demons curious to know how you pulled off the heist at all."  
Oh, the book. "It actually wasn't as difficult as you'd expect," he said cavalierly. “Barely any security, I just had to make a… convenient distraction."  
"Really? You'd think an item of that power would have more to its protection," Ligur said.   
"I was just as surprised, believe me. But this is, after all, what I do. I tried not to look the gift horse in the mouth, as it were."  
"So where have you hidden it?"  
"I wouldn't say it's… hidden," Azrafell said. "It's safe."  
Ligur frowned. "Lord Beelzebub sent us to collect it. You aren't hiding the sword from us, are you Azrafell?"  
Azrafell blinked, keeping his expression carefully neutral.   
What?  
What?  
"The… Sword. No, of course not. I'm just… I have it in a location that keeps it hidden from Heaven. And it's not the best time to take it out of that spot. Yet."  
"Why not? We have it and we can take it directly to Hell now. Imagine if we could keep the sword and have our master's son on our side. the war would be ours!"  
"Yes, but. Heaven knows the sword is gone too. They're gearing up for war. We take it to Hell, that's giving them permission for an invasion. If we… sit on it for a while, they lower their guard, and then we can strike."  
"How do they know?" Ligur growled. "And how do you know they know?"  
"They know the same way you do, I suspect," Azrafell said, though internally he cursed himself for being so foolish. "And as for how I know, what use would I be as an agent here on Earth if I wasn't gathering information on the opposition?"  
"Hm." Ligur's eyes narrowed as he glanced over at Hastur. "Either way, we need proof that you have it. Just to be sure."  
Azrafell laughed, despite the fact that his innards were slowly freezing solid. "The Blade is gone, isn't it?"  
Hastur looked back to Ligur and frowned. "Is that proof?"  
"...I don’t know. Could be."  
"You'll have the blade when it's time," Azrafell said. "Trust me. I'm very good at what I do."  
"We better have," Ligur said, glaring daggers at Azrafell.  
"It's not going to come to you any faster with you standing there," Azrafell said. "Run along now, gentlemen. Unlike you, I do have an actual business to run, thank you."  
Ligur sneered. "You'll be seeing us again."  
"Somehow, I don't doubt that," Azrafell sighed.  
The pair of demons took an extra moment to Lurk before making their way out of the shop, thankfully taking most of the stench with them.  
Azrafell bent over the counter of the shop, wringing hands that had begun to shake.   
This was it.   
The nightmare scenario.  
#  
Crowley made his slowish circles around the block, stealing a glance at the shop every time he passed. It wasn't a particularly long meeting, but it felt just short of an eternity. His fingers tapped on the steering wheel. Maybe they knew? Maybe they found out. Maybe they had come to enlist the demon to drag him back to hell. Wouldn't that be some cruel twist of cosmic justice. He almost drove home on at least one occasion, but thought better of it and chewed on the inside of his lip instead, trying to think of Joyful things.  
He couldn't stop the pang of relief he felt when he finally saw the Demon lurking in the doorway. Azrafell looked harried. He jerked his chin, a stiff beckon.  
He quickly pulled over and made his way to the door.  
Azrafell opened it and stepped aside, looking around at the street. "After you."  
Silent as a serpent, Crowely strode in and plopped down in his usual seat. "Ugh, it smells like rot."  
"Eau d'Hastur," Azrafell muttered, closing the door and locking it. "It won't come out for days."  
"Don't miss that. So, were they here for the sword?"  
"In a manner of speaking," Azrafell said. He walked from window to window, peering out and shutting the blinds. "Crowley… what does your side think happened to the Sword?" He asked. "Exactly?"  
"Gabriel said it was lost a few days ago. No details, really...why?"  
"Let's just say my end is quite sure that it's been stolen." Closing the last set of blinds, he turned and pulled a wooden box from a crowded desk. He held it out to Crowley. "Gloves."  
Crowley couldn't stop the sly smirk creeping across his lips as he took it. "Did you steal it?"  
Azrafell paused, casting a withering look Crowley's way. "If I had, why in the nine circles of Hell would I be helping you look for it?"  
"Just checking. it would make my job a lot easier…" Crowley paused, looking just a second too long at Azrafell's teeth. "The finding part, anyway."  
Azrafell's hand fluttered towards his mouth for a moment, before dropping and hooking in his waistcoat pocket. "Yes… rather."  
He took the box back and retrieved a pair of gloves for himself, pulling them on over manicured claws. "Back here."  
Crowley hauled himself up and sauntered after the demon, glancing about the bookshop as he did. "What do they feel like, anyway? I still have holes in my lips from mine."  
"What, the teeth? I hardly notice them anymore," Azrafell said. His back was to Crowley, and he waved a hand dismissively over one shoulder.  
"Mm." Unable to think of a way to keep the conversation going, the Angel fell silent and shoved his hands into his pockets.  
At the very back of the shop, there was a massive antique safe. Anyone who attempted to crack it would find themselves befuddled, fingers suddenly clumsy and mind suddenly slow. Azrafell snapped his fingers, and the tumblers all aligned with a menacing clunk. He swung it open.  
The book he withdrew didn't look like it had the potential to decide the fate of the human race. It was bound in pleasant green leather, with some gold and black leaf stamped into the cover and the spine. On the cover, in fine script, the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.  
Azrafell turned on a lamp over a desk that was mostly clear, the edges crowded with restoration equipment. "Pull up a chair," he said to Crowley.  
He did so, looking over the book with honest curiosity and hope. "Have you read any of it yet?"  
Azrafell shook his head. "This will be the first time I've even opened it." He took a deep breath and turned to the title page. The spine creaked in that satisfying way old book spines do.   
The impact of the anticipatory moment was, Crowley had to admit, lessened ever so slightly by the colorful child’s drawing of a witch marring the title page.   
Azrafell frowned.  
"Is that...colored pencil?" Crowley asked  
The Demon ran gloved fingers over the page. "It… yes." Frown deepening, he flicked through a few more pages. The crayon made no reappearance, but the margins were littered in notes. They had been scratched there with quill pen, pencil, felt-tip, and ballpoint. Notes about phrasing, disambiguation, conjecture, and commentary sprawled across the white space. Azrafell traced one of them with his finger. "Fascinating."  
"Ffeels well loved... Can I?"  
Azrafell looked at him, and for a moment, Crowley thought he would say no. But the Demon stood and moved his chair to the side. "Be my guest. Carefully."  
Crowley nodded and scooted his chair closer. His eyes closed as his fingertips brushed over the pages and, for a moment, he lost himself in its warmth. The reverence, the devotion, centuries of it layered in every page like the first ray of sunlight after a long winter. He smiled softly.   
Azrafell looked from him to the book and back again. His brows furrowed over dark eyes, but he didn't speak.  
With a sharp inhale Crowley opened his eyes. "Right," he muttered, shaking his head and gently flipping closer to the back of the book. "Let's see what we can find."  
Azrafell leaned in, close enough that his breath tickled Crowley's cheek. His eyes scanned the pages over the Angel's shoulder, fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of his chair. He was clearly itching to have the book back in his hands. Pointedly so.  
It would have been distracting in any other circumstance, had Crowley not been so preoccupied with Gabriel’s thinly veiled threat. The pair continued their reading, until, about three quarters of the way through, Azrafell's hand flashed out to stop Crowley's skimming fingers. "Wait, wait, wait."  
The Angel paused, narrowing his eyes at the page. Near the bottom, unlike most of the others, there was one prophecy that had a lone question mark written next to it. It read "On daye of fouled light, be it Known that Warre has lyft its Reste. Hark! Thou Foolish Principalitee, thee and thy counterpart do tarry too loung 'twixt my wordes. Warre, brande of Kyng, doth Tempte the World to Burninge. At Foure of road, on the Spyn of a Hog, Younge Kyng-sonne doth bear it for thee. One rideth by thy Grace, Moon in gyves upon her, who doth Knowe the keye. Find the keye, and ye brande shalle Follow."  
Crowley read the lines again and again, hoping to gain something, anything tangible from them before giving up and slumping back in his chair. "What does that even mean? Spine of a hog."  
"'Warre' is obviously a reference to the sword," Azrafell murmured. He got up and began to pace. "'The spine of a hog'… boar were symbolically significant to Mars and Ares, the Greco-Roman gods of war… perhaps it has something to do with that?" He paused and shook his head. "No, no. That would be ridiculous. I really think that the answer is in the 'keye.' A physical key seems unlikely, but not impossible. I would wager it's something along the lines of a cryptographic key, to some sort of code or cipher. Agnes clearly wants us to find this 'one who rideth by night,' but she with nothing else to go on…" he paused again. "Why was the prophecy addressed to you?:  
Crowley peered at him through his fingers. "I mean, technically it addresses us both."  
"Yes, but she only names the Principality. I think it's more than just a leeriness of discussing demons in her book. She knew she would be burnt anyways, after all. She wrote this for you." Azrafell tuned back to Crowley, pulling off his gloves and leaning on the back of his vacant chair.  
"Well I am the one looking for it," he grumbled, head falling back.  
Azrafell closed his eyes, smiling a smile of fraying patience. "And perhaps it really is just that. But if it is, we still have nothing on which to proceed."  
"What do you want me to do, Azrafell?! Prance about the streets of London in my long johns shouting 'I'm over here!'and pray that some lunatic on a giant hog comes barreling after me with the sword in hand?"  
"Well, I think stripping you down to your long johns is unnecessary," Azrafell said. He sighed. "I don't know, Crowley. Really, I don't. But we'd better figure it out soon."  
"I know! It's my head on the line, not yours."  
Azrafell broke eye contact, looking away. "Actually…"  
Crowley's head snapped up. "...what?"  
"They think I have it," Azrafell mumbled.  
"....they what?"  
"They think I have it!" Azrafell repeated, voice turning petulant.   
"But you said you didn't take it!"  
"I didn't take it! That hasn't stopped them thinking I have! They said Downstairs was very impressed. I thought Hastur was going to vomit. ''Oh, Azrafell, how did you manage it? Oh, Azrafell, this is the heist of the millennium!'" He threw up his hands. "They're talking about a commendation, and it's for the one thing I haven't done!"  
Crowley started at him, wide eyed and shell shocked for a very long moment. Then his shoulders began to quake. A tiny smile played on his lips, eventually widening to a full blown Cheshire grin, and he doubled over cackling with a snort.  
Azrafell huffed. "Well, I'm glad you're amused, though I can't fathom why. I bought us some time, but not much."  
Eventually the crackling died down to heavy breathing and the occasional snigger. "So what you're saying is, we're both fucked? Glorious."   
Azrafell sighed and looked up at the red-tinted skylight. "I need… alcohol."  
#  
The light was growing dim. Azrafell had forsaken his wingback by the fire for the larger, plusher sofa, and looked down into his wine glass. The alcohol had done nothing to lift his spirits. He found his eyes drifting back over and over to where Nice and Accurate Prophecies lay on the restoration desk. There was something in that prophecy, something that would unlock its meaning. But right now his brain was too fuddled to make much sense of it.  
Crowley, on the other hand, was cooing up a large, off white and burnt orange python that had contented itself with resting its head on top of his. You see, Crowley, despite all this time, still felt a profound connection with the serpents of this world. Head office hated it. But Crowley didn't mind, he loved how self sufficient and calm the constrictors were. Monty, the snake he was speaking with now, was his oldest companion. Well. Besides Azrafell. He couldn't bear to let her die, so every once in a while he'd bless her with a small miracle to keep her alive. She was almost one hundred years old. Currently, her tail was wrapped loosely around the hand that held an empty glass while the rest of her curled about his shoulders. "We never get t'hang out anymore, Monty. Why is that?"  
The snake flicked its tongue over his forehead.  
"Yeah, I think so too." Crowley looked over at Azrafell with the hooded eyes of a drunken man. "He doesn't look very happy, Monty. Maybe you should go 'n cheer him up."  
"I'm not happy," Azrafell mumbled. "The apoca- ap- apoc- end times are coming. Ahead of schedule."  
"But isn't that wha' you lot want?" Crowley crooned, pulling the snake gently into his lap so he could pet her head. "Violence and war and stuff."  
"I mean, I s'pose so. But all in good time, you know? And to be fair, 'swhat your side wants too. To crush Hell in a blaze of Holy Glory, and all that." He glowered at his wine.  
"If y'ask me, I think everyone's got a hard-on for power and a great big s...superiority...thing." he snapped his fingers and Monty proofed from his lap to Azrafell's. The snake flicked her tongue at his nose.  
"Complex," Azrafell slurred. He eyed Monty blearily. "Mm surprised you still have this little… lady. Thought Gabriel didn't much care for Angels keeping mortal companions."  
Crowley huffed and attempted to take a draft from his empty glass. "Gabe can go fuck a tree," he grumped, looking down at it before reaching for the bottle. "Monty is one'a my best friends…I think she's asking you ta'boop."  
The snake’s head was hovering above Azrafell’s shoulder, looking at him expectantly.  
Azrafell snickered and obliged the reptile, raising a hand to point at her. "Language, Crawley. Your side don't approve of nasty words."  
The snake bumped her head into his finger before settling around the Demon’s neck like a scarf.  
"Fuck, shit, piss, cock," Crowley spat, exaggerating the enunciation of each word. "They don't like me anyway. And 'snot Crawley, Zira."  
"Right, right. My mistake." Azrafell sat back and looked up at the ceiling. For a minute or two, all was silent. "D'... D'you ever miss it? Being Crawley?"  
"... Sometimes. Maybe? it was more… free. 'S complicated being 'nAngel. You have ta feel things.You remember." His nose scrunched up at the word feel. "I dunno. Some days I think I'd take it over what I am now...Just not the Fall-y bit. That sucked."  
"Mm…" Azrafell nodded slowly.  
"Whaddabout you? Still miss being ethereal?"  
Azrafell was silent for so long that Crowley wondered if he'd fallen asleep before he said, softly, "I miss my name. I… miss the person that went with it."  
Crowley seemed to sober up for a moment, looking the demon over sagely. "Then don't forget them. Learn from them. They're still here. Well, pieces are." He looked down at the bottle in his hand and took a sizable drink. "'S all you can do."  
Azrafell scowled distantly down at the snake around his neck. "I s'pose."  
"Y'know you can talk if y'need to. I think we may be the only two beings that've even got a—hic!—decent idea about wha' the other's going through."  
Azrafell looked at Crowley blearily, and for a moment, Crowley thought he might take him up on his offer. But then he said, "a Demon, pouring his soul out to an Angel? I don't think either of our sides would like that very much." He held a hand to his mouth to stifle a burp. "Careful, Crowley. You're traipsing dangerously close to being kind."  
"Didn't say you had t'pour your soul out," he muttered, just the slightest hint of disappointment coming through.  
"Still," Azrafell mumbled. "Hate to give Head Office more ammo against you. What with the sword of Damocles already… hovering."  
"Oh, so you care?"  
"Didn't say that," Azrafell said, automatically. He eyed Crowley. "Why?... d'you?"  
"I'm an Angel. I can't help but care." He emptied the bottle. " 's all care 'njoy all over the bloody place. Supposedly. D'you know how exhausting it is to care a little bit about. Every. Living. Thing? Like... even if a dog shat on my car, some tiiiiny part of me would still have complete love for the mongrel."  
"Sounds like it hurts," Azrafell murmured. He looked down at his glass one more time, and set it aside  
"It's not all bad, I guess. Could be worse."  
"Could be Damned?" The Demon asked, wryly.  
“I was gonna say dead."  
"... Ah."  
Crowley shifted position with a grunt, throwing his leg over the arm of his chair."...All right, Imma sober up before I say something I regret."  
"Indeed," Azrafell muttered.   
Their faces twisted in discomfort as they purged the alcohol from their systems.  
"Bleh," Crowley mutter, sticking out his tongue. "Cotton mouth."  
Azrafell's nose wrinkled as he nodded his agreement.  
Crowley sighed and held his arms out. "give me my snake."  
Azrafell unlooped Monty from around his shoulders and held her out to Crowley. "Thank you for the, ah…" he hesitated, and Crowley wondered for a moment what was so hard for the Demon to say.   
"Snake," Azrafell finished, lamely.  
'"Anytime," Crowley said, cocking an eyebrow at him and winding the snake about his neck like a rich woman's scarf. "...Zira?"  
"Yes, angel?" Azrafell replied absently.  
" I know you said you didn't care, but...could I just...please don't let anyone know you have that," he said quietly, , nodding over to the book. "Or that I helped you get it. As a favor. If Head Office found out, well...Falling would be merciful, I think."  
Azrafell frowned. "Of course," he said. "Crowley, of course."  
The Angel offered a small, tired smile and a visible weight lifted off his shoulders. "Thank you. Goodnight, Azrafell."  
"'And may flights of Angels wing thee to thy rest,'" Azrafell said. "I'll keep working on the prophecy. You look exhausted."  
"You could say that."  
"Please, for the love of… Someone, just promise me you'll get some rest."  
Crowley turned towards the door with a lazy salute. "I'll do my best."  
Azrafell watched him get into his car and drive away, before closing the bookshop and locking the doors.  
#  
Tonight was better. That may be because Crowley didn't bother with sleep. He and Monty spent the night on the roof of the greenhouse, enjoying the night air and the dim bustle of the city. He fed the snake her favorite meat pies, the ones form the twenty-four-hour hole in the wall down the street, as he lost himself in thought.   
He almost said something unforgivable in the bookstore, and he couldn't say he would regret it if he did. Even in Eden, when their roles were reversed, Crowley had been curious about the other entity, something about the way he spoke, or the innocence in his eyes when he admitted to giving away the sword. Now that the demon had become...well, an angel, that interest was flooded with a sea of other emotions that Crowley feared he would never be able to wrangle. It was confusing. He wondered how he'd ever done it in the first place.  
He did care about the demon, Crowley knew his pain. He felt in tonight in the bookstore and it almost brought a tear to his eye. Not that he'd ever admit it. But caring and being an accomplice to Evil are two different things, and for the life of him Crowly couldn't figure out why he still went along with the Azrafell's schemes. He was an angel now, for heaven's sake. and yet…  
He continued to pet his snake in solemn silence, gazing up at the inky sky.


	8. Book, Blade, Boudicea

Azrafell paused where he was wiping the dust from the shelves. He could have cleaned his bookshop with a minor demonic miracle or two, small enough that Hell wouldn’t even register them, but he liked doing it by hand.  
What had he said last night? He had always been proud of his memory, and the events pre- and post-alcohol were crystal clear. Mid-alcohol, however was where some problems began to arise.  
Had he told Crowley he didn’t care? That wasn’t true, he didn’t think. He didn’t not care, anyway. Crowley was… what was he? An ally? An acquaintance?  
Maybe even a friend, after a fashion?  
He just… didn’t want to get the Angel’s hopes up. The ethereal and the occult didn’t mix, everyone knew that, and—  
“Hi, sorry,” a voice said.  
Azrafell looked up with a glower, fighting back the snarl building in his throat. He tried to make his face as polite as he could on short notice. “Mm?”  
The woman standing in his shop did not look as though she belonged there. She looked like she belonged at a crafts faire, or a farmer’s market, selling artisanal honeys and palm readings. Her red hair was curled tightly around her head, and clashed with her green scarf and peacock shawl. “I’m looking for a rare book,” she said, fluttering false eyelashes in a manner that was undoubtedly supposed to be persuasive.  
Azrafell wondered if she was aware she was in Soho.  
“We’re closed,” he said. “Apologies.” His mouth made the shape of a smile, but it was devoid of warmth.  
“Oh, but it says you’re open on the door!” The woman said. “Please, I’ve looked everywhere else.”  
Azrafell looked past her to see that the sign hanging in his shop window did, in fact, declare it open.  
The woman was looking at him hopefully. Azrafell debated revealing his true face, just for a moment, all warped divinity and gnashing teeth. But she might faint instead of running, and then he’d have to wait for her to wake up, and they’d be back to square one.  
Helping someone might go towards squaring him with Crowley. Knock one good deed off the Angel’s to-do list.  
And who knew? Depending on the book, it might knock a bad deed off Azrafell’s in the process.  
“What book?” he asked.  
The woman smiled, relieved. “Oh, ah…” she pulled a rumpled scrap of yellow paper from her bag. “A Historie of Witches, their Glorious Demises, and the Heroism of the Witchfinder Army, by a, um… Adultery Pulsifer?”  
Azrafell blinked. “You want Pulsifer’s book? The second-worst-selling book of all time? Are you a witchfinder?” Azrafell didn’t think she looked the type. And he would certainly have remembered a woman in the wages books of the Army, as there had never been one before.  
She chuckled. “Oh, no. I’m a medium. But I know a witchfinder, and his birthday’s coming up, and I thought this would make just the loveliest gift.”  
“I… see.” Yes, this was going to go a long way towards squaring him with the Angel. “I… may be able to help you,” he sighed.  
“Oh, really?” the woman asked, face breaking into a kind smile at a spot just to the right of Azrafell's ear. “Thank you!”  
“Don’t make a production of it,” Azrafell muttered, stripping off his gloves. “This way, please.” He turned and led the medium away through the stacks.  
“I’m Madame Tracy, love. Are you Mister Fell?”  
“That is what it says on the sign,” Azrafell said.  
“What a lovely little shop you have here, Mister Fell. All sorts of dear knicky-knacks and odds and ends.”  
“It is occult memorabilia, mostly," Azrafell said. He glanced back at Madame Tracy just in time to see her reach for a pentacle pendant on a length of black ribbon. “And that’s cursed.”  
She withdrew her hand. “Well, it’s lovely that you’ve found your niche,” she said brightly.  
Turning back to the front, Azrafell shook his head bemusedly.  
Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer’s book was an oddity in that it was both incredibly rare and essentially worthless. Azrafell owned both remaining copies, unable to be rid of either of them for centuries.  
He picked one up and handed it to her. “It’s very old. Please be careful.”  
Her face lit up, and inside of Azrafell, something twinged. “Oh, Mister Fell! It’s perfect.”  
Azrafell cleared his throat. “Does this witchfinder… know your occupation?” he asked, without quite knowing why.  
She nodded. “But this one’s all right, really. He’s just lonely.”  
“Just… do tread lightly,” Azrafell said.  
“Oh, Mister Fell. You say that like someone who’s never loved someone else before,” Madame Tracy said. She smiled down at the book, cheeks rosy and eyes bright, and that twinge in Azrafell’s chest became an ache.  
“Let’s get you checked out,” he said, turning away and heading back towards the register.  
#  
“The Statue,” Azrafell said, as soon as Crowley picked up the phone. “I think it might have something to do with the statue.”  
"What in the name of holy fire are you talking about, Azrafell?"  
“Right, yes, of course. Boadicea and Her Daughters, I mean. I think we ought to start there.”  
"Why there? Seems a little...I dunno. Urban?"  
“That’s what I thought too, but I think I put it together last night. Boudica is a warrior queen. It makes sense that she be entrusted with… well, with war. If I wanted to hide an ancient weapon that I had stolen from its resting place, I’d leave it in the hands of a warrior. And! The prophecy mentions a rider. She is definitely riding something. And that statue… isn’t too far from where you live, Crowley, is it? Could she be said to be riding nearby your Grace? Or the idea of it, anyhow.”  
"Not terribly, no. Maybe a...fifteenish minute walk."  
“I’ll catch a cab and meet you there.”  
"All right then." Crowly unwrapped Monty and set her down on a chair. "Be back in a tick."  
#  
Crowley was draped over a bench when Azrafell got there. His hair was completely down and the sleeves of his button down rolled up to mid bicep. For someone who always had an air of comfortable dishevelment about them, he seemed more relaxed than normal. Given the circumstances, it was a little odd. "Took you long enough," he chuckled, smirking as he peered over the rim of his glasses.  
“Traffic is a nightmare. I’d say it was demonic intervention, if I didn’t know humanity.” Azrafell shuddered. His hair was down, and white curls framed his face beneath a wide-brimmed hat. “I don’t suppose you’re lounging there because you’ve found it already?”  
"I took a look around. Didn't find anything, though."  
Hmm…” He sat on the bench beside Crowley, Folding his hands in his lap. He raised his chin and closed his eyes.  
Crowley glanced over at him. "What are you doing?"  
“I am trying,” Azrafell murmured, “to feel. Angels are no use for weeding out violent impulses from all the background noise. Too Good, or something to that effect.”  
"Right, right. Forget about that."  
They sat in silence, a mutual quiet that, on Azrafell's end at least, began to grow distinctly peeved.  
His mouth pursed. “I suppose it may be under some sort of protection that would hide it from people like us. It is Humanity’s sword, after all.”  
"Figures,"Crowley grumbled  
Azrafell glanced at him. “How thoroughly did you look?”  
"As thoroughly as I could without looking like a complete lunatic."  
“It’s the middle of London, Crowley. Lunatics are a daily occurrence. I assure you, no one gives a damn.” Azrafell got off the bench and approached the statue, peering at it clinically from different angles.  
Crowley sighed and hauled himself up to help.  
The search, though exhaustive, proved fruitless. As the pair of increasingly frustrated entities combed the surface, a pair of police constables took notice. One of them spoke into the radio on his vest, while the other began to approach. He raised a hand and called out, “Everything all right over here?”  
Azrafell made a face. “It’s not here.” Without looking at the constable, he snapped.  
The man tripped over shoelaces that had become inextricably tangled, going down hard. His partner looked up from the radio and rushed to his assistance.  
Arafell looked at Crowley. “Spot of lunch?”  
#  
Azrafell ate. He never passed up a chance to eat. His love of food was the only rival to his love of books.  
Crowley, however, wasn’t hungry. He looked around at the humans, talking over their dim sum and planning their lives.  
How could they not sense that a celestial war was brewing?  
A niggling feeling stirred at the back of his mind. He closed his eyes and told himself that he couldn't smell any smoke.  
“Something on your mind?” Azrafell asked, stopping Crowley’s train of thought short. “Well. Aside from the obvious.”  
"Just the obvious," he muttered. "We're back at square one."  
“Oh, do be charitable,” Azrafell said. “It’s at least square one-and-a-half.”  
"How do you figure? Now we get to run around london, searching over every statue of a fighter. Face it, Zira, we're lost."  
“We can always try the Museum. There’s more that we can do. We still have time.” He paused and made a face. “Are you really making me be the optimist here? It’s putting a funny taste in my mouth.”  
"You'll be fine," Crowley said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Too much of one this is bad for you anyway."  
The Demon rolled his eyes. “Did you get any rest at all last night?”  
Crowley quirked a curious eyebrow at him. "Who's asking?"  
Azrafell frowned. “I… am?”  
"I...a...nevermind. Yeah, I had some down time."  
“Good… good.”  
The Angel looked him over slowly. "For someone who doesn't care, you ask a lot of questions."  
“You just seem… off,” Azrafell said defensively. “I can’t exactly halt a Holy War with an Angel who’s a few feathers short of a wing.”  
"That's fair," Crowley said with a shrug and a coy little smirk. "To be perfectly honest, I think I've already flown off the deep end."  
Azrafell nodded sagely. “That may be so.”  
"Speaking of Holy Wars, are you done yet? I doubt we're going to find a flaming sword in a plate of dumplings."  
Azrafell looked at the Angel long-sufferingly and speared the final bun in the bowl.  
#  
The faux-parthenon facade of the British Museum loomed tall and intimidating against the gray sky.  
“I’ll never understand Humanity’s fascination with flaunting their conquests,” Aziraphale muttered. “I know I’m a thief, but really. Even I have a limit to my hubris.”  
Crowley shoved his hands into his vest pockets. "Wouldn't you if you didn't have an eternity?"  
Azrafell glanced at him, and then back at the museum. “Perhaps.”  
They jogged up the stairs and through the doors. They ignored the desks around the edges of the white, vaulted lobby, making directly for the stairs in the center. Before ascending, Azrafell rested a hand on the wall, briefly concentrating.  
"Anything?"  
“No,” Azrafell growled. A woman passing by started walking a little faster, though she looked like she wasn’t sure why. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”  
"Well then, I guess it's time to do a little manual digging," Crowley grumbled, sauntering up the stairs.  
Azrafell hung back a moment, watching him with a hard-to-read expression.  
By the time the demon caught up, Crowley was standing at the top of the stairs. A faint expression of distaste scrunched his nose as he looked around  
“Not your cup of tea?” Azrafell murmured.  
"Gives me mixed feelings." Head low and peering over his glasses, Crowley made his way forward.  
“Mm,” Azrafell agreed quietly. Speaking up, he said, “Aside from the weaponry, I recommend we make our way back into the archived collections. It may be hiding out of public sight.”  
"And you have a clever plan for getting us down there, then?'  
“No mortal security system has stopped our ilk yet. I recommend we walk.”  
"As long as we don't cause a fuss," Crowley said.  
“I’m insulted you’d even need that clarification,” Azrafell huffed.  
Crowley smirked. "Oh, I'm just ruffling your feathers Zira. I know you're plenty good at what you do. Maybe I just like seeing you frazzled for once," he said, facing forward again.  
Azrafell rolled his eyes and started walking. "The weapons gallery is this way."  
Crowley fell in one step behind.  
When Azrafell reached weapons gallery, he paused. The cases stretched out before them, all glass and black trim. Human implements of destruction gleamed inside every one.  
“They really are quite good at this,” he murmured. His tone was hard to decipher.  
Crowley frown. "Creative. I never liked the darker histories. Too gory for me."  
Azrafell glanced at him. Crowley steeled himself for a joke or a jab, but the Demon held his tongue. “Shall we start with Rome?”  
"Lead the way."  
The gallery was quiet, only a few other patrons weaving amongst the cases. Azrafell and Crowley paused in front of a case of Roman gladii. The light gleamed dully off the ancient steel.  
“Do you remember Rome?” Azrafell murmured.  
"I remember it being loud…"his eyes slid over to the demon. "And I remember you making a he-..a lot of trouble for me."  
Azrafell smiled, casting a cheeky, sidelong look up at the Angel. “Well, you just made it so tempting for me to try. How could I refuse?”  
“See?” a voice whispered from a ways behind them. “I told you we wouldn’t be the only ones doing a sword wedding. It’s not weird!”  
Crowley cast a glance over his shoulder towards the voice and winked over his glasses.  
The two young women, hovering by a display of French rapiers, blushed. One of them waved.  
Azrafell turned to see who Crowley was winking at, and one eyebrow rose amusedly. He waved back. “Come on, angel. It’s not in this one, at least.”  
As the young women blushed and scurried away, Crowley turned to Azrafell with a grin. "You're going soft, you old fiend."  
"Don't make me laugh," Azrafell said. "What was I supposed to do? Smite them in broad daylight?"  
"The Flame of Alexandria would have."  
Azrafell looked at him sharply.  
"What? A fact's a fact. And the fact is, you're getting soft." Crowley didn't know why he picked now to needle the Demon. All the naked steel in the room, carrying memories of war and death, was making him want to squirm. But it did help to alleviate the growing panic in his chest.  
Azrafell just looked him up and down. “This way.” he beckoned with one clawed hand.  
Crowley followed, smirking all the while. Azrafell wove between cases, opening a door to a flight of service stairs. “Down here. Just look like you know where you’re going, and we’ll be untouchable.”  
"I always look like it," Crowley crooned.  
Azrafell turned all the way around, looking up at the Angel. “Are you… All right?”  
"Perfect. Why?"  
“Don’t lie to me, Angel,” Azrafell said. “My boss is the Prince of Lies. Is this something you can do today?” The words should have been hard, but something about the faint line between the demon’s brow lessened the blow in a… confusing way.  
Crowley smiled and flicked the brim of his hat just enough to tilt it slightly to one side. "I'm fine, Azrafell. Just feeling a little… something. Come on, let's finish this, mm?"  
#  
There was something wrong with Azrafell’s Angel.  
As he watched Crowley swagger down the stairs past him, he righted his hat from where it had been knocked askew.  
Six thousand years with someone is enough time to get to know them, intentionally or otherwise. Crowley was capable of a wide range of emotion, courtesy of his Angelic capacity for feeling, but this brand of cocksurety was… brittle. Plastic. Artificial.  
And the world might end before he had chance to unpack it. Marvelous.  
He followed Crowley down to a white, frosted glass door, the words Restricted Access laser etched at eye level. A keycard slider flashed red by the knob.  
The Angel looked down at him expectantly. "Are you gonna do the thing, or should I?"  
Azrafell waved a clawed hand, and the red light became green. “After you.”  
"thank you," Crowley purred as he slid past.  
Azrafell paused again, looking after Crowley with an expression bordering on horror. Yes, this was going to have to be a priority.  
The archives were white, shelves closely packed and organized by age and category. The light here was pale and clinical, the atmosphere utilitarian.  
The room was huge.  
“You go left, I’ll go right. Shout if you see anything suspicious,” he said.  
Since Crowley had found out about the sword, Azrafell had been the vocal one, making the decisions. As someone who had prided himself for six thousand years on not taking too hard a stance on anything, the feeling didn’t sit well in his gut. Crowley was the snappy one, the decision-maker. The buzzing sense of Wrongness in the back of Azrafell’s mind grew as he walked the aisles.  
#  
It seemed like hours before they met at the front again. "Didn't find anything," Crowley said with a shrug. "You?"  
“If I had, I’d have it,” Azrafell said, voice distant. “I’ll have to go back to the source, look at the prophecy again.”  
"Maybe someone riding a boar will come stampeding through central London with it. Wouldn't that be funny?" Crowley snickered as he turned to leave.  
“It would certainly simplify things,” Azrafell agreed. “Do you want to come to the bookshop this evening? I could provide another nightcap.”  
"Ooh, two meetings in one day? Careful, Azrafell, people might begin to think you aren't so bad." Something cracked in his voice. It was small, almost imperceptible. But it was there all the same.  
Azrafell froze. “... Well. The world is about to be rent by the flames of War. In the grand scheme, what does one moment of weakness really matter?"  
Crowley's smile wasn't as bright this time. "Maybe later. I've got some things I have to do tonight."  
Azrafell nodded, a little stiff. “All right.”  
The Angel offered him his traditional lazy salute and began making his was out of the museum.  
Azrafell looked up heavenward, for the first time he could recall. “Why in the nine circles of Hell did you have to give them all the feelings?” he asked the air. “It makes them terribly fragile, you know.”


	9. Golgotha

He screamed as they drove the nails into his wrists. The son of God, they called him. The King of the Jews.  
How could anyone look at him, weeping from the agony of torture as they raised him on the tree, and think him anything but human?  
Human and innocent.  
Azrafell glowered around at the assembled masses. Watching the death of a Good man like it was some sort of spectator sport.  
That was the kind of thing his side were supposed to be into. And yet, Azrafell couldn't muster up any enthusiasm whatsoever. He couldn't muster up anything, aside from a faint nausea.  
The man's greatest crime was being kind.  
He felt the presence before he saw who it belonged to, quiet and calm for the most part. "It's a shame really," Crowley murmured. "He was one of the few Good ones." The Angel's hair was covered, tucked neatly away into a gold and white hood that framed her face like a halo.  
"I met him, you know," Azrafell said. "In the desert, just before the end. Offered him food and drink. He looked like he was about to keel over. He turned me down, of course. So… I showed him all the hallowed halls of all the most learned men in the world."  
"That's oddly considerate of you," Crowley said with a sidelong glance  
"Oh, don't make a thing of it," Azrafell said. "I may be a demon, but I don't abide by the punishment of innocents. That's all. As far as I could tell, the lad hadn't done anything actually… wrong."  
She huffed and looked back as they heated the cross upright. "Then what are you doing here?"  
"I could ask you the same," he said.  
"You could. But I asked first."  
Azrafell Paused. "I'm… bearing witness, I suppose. He's a carpenter from Galilee. In a century or so, he'll be a footnote. Someone ought to remember him."  
"Oh, I don't think you'll have to worry about that," Crowley said. "He got people talking, challenged an age-old thought process. Even if he's not who they say he is, he's got enough of a story to him to keep him interesting for a while."  
"Hm. Maybe so."  
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" The man cried.  
Azrafell looked up at him. The agony in the voice twisted something inside him until it tore. He turned.  
And left.


	10. Fateful Reunion

The only way Crowley would have made it home sooner was if he'd miracled his way to teleportation. He did, however, commandeer a cab since he didn't have the Bentley. Poor Stanley the cab driver had at least three near death experiences as his livelihood literally sped from his control. Wheels and pedals weren't supposed to move on their own. Luckily for him, he wouldn't remember a thing.  
Crowley practically ripped the door off its hinges as he entered entered the apartment. The air around him felt thick and dry, like trying to breathe cotton balls, his glasses had fallen off his face in the doorway and his tie suddenly felt like a very well tailored noose. He ripped off layers of silk and cotton from his torso as he staggered into his room, startling poor Monty from her slumber. Without him even realizing, he'd dropped to his hands and knees on the cool stone floor, gasping for each breath like it was his last. Closing his eyes in fear, he slowly unfurled his wings, half expecting to room to fill with the smell of burning feathers and skin. But it didn't. They were there, black with a golden sheen, unmarked by flame or blood. Same as they had been for the past six thousand years. he couldn't tell if his face was wet from tears or sweat.  
Suddenly exhausted, he slumped to the floor and closed his eyes to try and calm his breathing as waves of guilt and anger and fear washed over him. Somewhere in the back of his head he registered a touch as Monty slipped under his arm and bumped her snout to his nose.  
"Hey," he murmured. "I'm all right…I thought I was finished with this, Monty."  
The snake apparently found it an insufficient answer as she bumped him again. When the Angel didn't respond, she curled gently around his shoulders and stayed there as he fell into something like sleep.  
#  
The next morning, Crowley's neck was stiff. His head pounded, and the back of his mouth was sour. He peered groggily around at his apartment. The thought of being alone didn't exactly appeal to him.   
He thought about the bookshop, and the Demon that ran it, but Azrafell was making his stomach do all sorts of funny things recently.  
Crowley ended up at the Verdant Green. It was a pet project of his. Over the years, London had become so… grey. Nature was snuffed out in favour of progress. So he procured the shell of a small packing plant, gutted and left to rot by its previous owners, and filled it with life.   
Crowley stocked all sorts of plants at the Green. Succulents, perennials, a few kinds of small, hardy tree that could survive the urban environment. He even sold several fruits, vegetables, and herbs, and if they looked like they were having a hard day, the Angel may even turn a blind eye to someone grazing off the wares.   
Crowley walked among the rows, mister in hand, inspecting leaves and flowers for any signs of ill health. He didn't actually make eye contact with any of the few patrons, but it was strangely reassuring to know that they were there.  
Every once in a while someone would come to ask him about a particular plant and, although they were normally maddeningly simple questions, he would come with them to help. He enjoyed the distraction. Currently, he was gently trying to convince the woman he was helping that she, in fact, was not an orchid person.  
"But Home Gardners Weekly says that they're very low maintenance," she insisted. She was a round woman, of a fashion and temperament that suggested strongly to Crowley the owner of a teacup poodle, though no poodle was present at the moment.  
"They would be if we lived in the tropics," he insisted. "And unless you enjoy a humid home, it won't bloom like you want it to."  
She huffed.  
"Coneflower or catmint would be better, honestly. They're bigger, but just as hearty. And they like the weather better too."  
"Can you show me?"  
Crowley obliged, leading her to the plants in question. She dithered for a moment, before pointing to the coneflower. "That one."  
Despite himself, Crowley couldn't contain a small sigh of relief as he checked her out and sent her on her way with a new, green companion. Maybe he'd go to the back and restock. Clear his head away from customers vying for his attention.  
A throat cleared behind him. "Sorry to trouble you," a young woman said. "I'm new around here, and I'm looking for some plants…"  
"Well, you're at the right-" he began as he turned. He paused for a stunned moment saw the young woman addressing him. Long, flowy skirt, same round glasses and long black hair. "Place...Sorry, thought you were someone else."  
Anathema Device was frowning too. She adjusted her glasses. "Do I… know you?"  
#  
Azrafell was pacing circles around his shop. He hadn’t turned up anything last night. He was debating putting the word out to his human operatives, but who knows what effect the sword of War would have on a mortal who picked it up.   
With each lap, Azrafell passed by his old rotary phone. And each time he passed by, he stopped, hand hovering over the receiver.   
He was a Demon.   
Demons didn’t fuss over other people. Let alone Angels.  
With no new information, Crowley might wonder why he was calling at all.   
Azrafell’s eyes landed on the potted flower Ligur had touched the last time he was here. The poor thing was still quite dead.  
He could bring it back to life. One part of him panged at the thought of replacing a gift.   
But on the other hand… a replacement would Mean a trip to the Verdant Green.   
#  
"I, uh...a...You may have seen me around," Crowley said, quickly composing himself. "I'm a bit of a staple around here. What are you looking for?"  
His shaky explanation clearly wasn't convincing her, but she just said, "Yarrow and Periwinkle, please. Do you sell by the sprig, or do I need the whole plant?"  
"Sprig's are fine. Over here."  
"Are you sure we've never met?" She asked, after a few beats of awkward silence walking through the rows. "You look really familiar."  
"Not that I know of." He said with a professional air of polite denial.  
On the inside, though, he was flailing. After all, humans never had even an inkling of a wiped interaction after the fact, name, face, or otherwise. So why did she? And of all the people in God's creation, why her?  
“Must be just me, then,” she murmured. She looked around at the Green with red-rimmed eyes, like she as shortly recovered from weeping. “You have beautiful plants here.”  
"Thanks. I've got loads of free time."  
“You certainly put it to good use.”  
Crowley smirked. "All right, let's see ...how much?"  
“Uh…” Anathema pulled out a crumpled slip of yellow paper, with what looked like a recipe in faded brown ink. “four of the yarrows, six of the periwinkles, please.”  
He nodded sharply and began snipping. "Can I ask what it's for?"  
She nodded. “I’m trying to find something. Well, two somethings, now.”  
"Important things, I'm guessing?" Crowley asked even though he already had a pretty good idea about what at least one of them was.  
“Cosmically important,” she lamented. “My family had this… this book, that they kept safe for three hundred years. And I was supposed to use it to find something else, but now the book is just gone, and I don’t even have any idea of where to start looking for the other thing.” She blinked and shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”  
"You're not the first to blurt their life problems to a stranger," Crowley said with a chuckle. "Probably won't be the last. Here."  
She took the flowers. “Thank you. How much do I owe you?”  
"Eh...don't worry about it, you're new. It's on the house."  
She smiled. “Thank you! That’s so kind of you.”   
"Don't mention it."  
“Crowley!” The voice preceded its owner around the corner. Azrafell’s hair was tied messily back, tangled like he’d been running his hands through it. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you. I have some unfortunate news about my plant—oh. Miss Device.”  
Anathema’s eyes widened. “You! You were outside the hotel the day my book got… stolen…”  
Azrafell smiled. “And how have you been, my dear?”  
Instead of answering, Anathema paled a shade or two. “What is going on with your teeth?”  
Crowley's eyes practically fell out of his skull as he looked between the two of them.  
Azrafell recovered from his shock and snapped. Anathema froze in place, expression smoothing out to neutrality.   
“Crowley,” Azrafell said evenly. “What the Heaven was that?”  
"How should I know?!" He hissed. "What the fuck are you doing here?"  
“Language,” Azrafell said absently. He leaned in and examined Anathema’s blank face. “Ligur killed my plant, I was coming to get a new one. Do you suppose she’s quite human?”  
"...You came to get a plant? Just zap yours back." He looking around, making sure no one else was paying too much. "Miss, I think the rest of what you're looking for is in the back. Come on," he growled at Azrafell, giving his sleeve a sharp tug.  
“I am not a child,” Azrafell said, pulling his sleeve from Crowley’s grip. He placed a hand on Anathema’s shoulder, guiding her along with them. “What was she doing here?”  
"She wanted plants, Azrafell. She's looking for the book." He glared at the demon. Didn't suspect much till you showed up."  
“I’m sorry, Crowley, but how was I supposed to know that she was even visiting a garden shop? Let alone yours?”  
Crowley just made a face and kept walking. There was a small door in the far back corner he led them to. Quietly, he ushered them in. the room was small, barely large enough to fit three people comfortably, but it locked and that was the most they could hope for.   
Crowley desperately wished it was large enough to pace in.  
"What do you think,” Azrafell said, clasping his hands in front of him. “Do we leave her entranced, or try to talk through things with her fully lucid?”  
"She Saw you! And she remembered me, kind of. I don't think it works well on her."  
“What doesn’t work?” Anathema asked, slowly.  
Azrafell frowned. “Was that… a question?”  
Crowley took a deep breath. His lips were pressed into a thin line and his expression was as tight as a preschool teacher's on their very last grain of patience. "She does that."  
Azrafell shot him a look and snapped again. Anathema blinked and shook her head. She jumped, looking around. “How did we get here?” she looked back at Azrafell. “And what is going on with your teeth?”  
Crowley stuttered and snapped his fingers, sending her back to blank neutrality. "Are you stupid?"  
Azrafell closed his eyes. “Do you want her awake or not?” he asked.   
"Not right now!"  
“Well then, what do you propose we do?”  
"I… don’t know! But we can't explain this away!"  
“Oh, I think we’re well past that," Azrafell said. “She Saw me, and you said yourself, we can’t just tell her to forget. There’s no guarantee it would stick. Somehow I think killing her might go over poorly, so our only avenue right now is a discussion.”  
"You want to start being truthful now? That won’t end well."  
“It can’t end worse than heavenly war,” Azrafell said. “She’s a descendant of Agnes Nutter, she’s bound to be more savvy than most—wait.” Azrafell looked at Anathema, and his eyes widened. “She’s a descendant of Agnes Nutter.”  
"That's probably why she's causing this much trouble," Crowley muttered  
“No, no—well, yes, but more importantly—” he reached over and pulled at a cord around her neck, causing a crescent moon pendant to jingle. “Would you call a cyclist whose bike you miracled back to health ‘one who rides by your Grace?’  
"....you aren't suggesting…"  
“I’m suggesting that Agnes Nutter had a cruel sense of humour,” Azrafell said. He replaced the pendant. “Someone who spent their whole life deciphering the book would certainly have the ‘key’ to understanding it.”  
"And how do you plan on asking her? 'Excuse me, marm, we're two supernatural entities searching for the notorious blade of War? I was hoping you might help us decipher the book we stole from you?'" He held out a hand and cocked his head as if he couldn't believe Azrafell didn't see the idiocy of all this   
“Do you have any better ideas?” Azrafell asked. “One, single better idea.”  
Crowley paused. "Azrafell," he said, voice low and grave. "Humans are crap with secrets, even more so when those secrets involve their stolen property. She could tell the wrong people without even knowing. If we do this, you have to give that book back, or my own personal doomsday clock starts ticking."  
For a moment, Azrafell's expression turned thunderous, something unpleasant flickering in his dark eyes. But he sighed and looked back at Anathema. He bit his lip. “Fine. Fine, angel, have it your way.”   
Crowley blinked. He had prepared for much more fight, for a vehement no, maybe some yelling. He wasn't prepared for instant agreement. "...all right," he muttered, frowning lightly as he snapped his fingers.  
“What do you keep doing to me?” Anathema demanded. “Who are you people? What do you want? Why are your auras so bizarre? And what is going on with your teeth?!” Her eyes slid up to his, and she opened her mouth like she wanted to say something. But nothing came out.  
Azrafell looked away and lifted a hand to his mouth. “Do we tackle this all at once?” he asked Crowley. “Or take it in points?”  
"Might as well get it over with." Crowley muttered, taking off his glasses.  
Azrafell sighed again. "Very well. We keep putting you in a sedated state," he said to Anathema. "Because… you caught us off-guard, and we had to improvise. My name is Azrafell, this is Crowley. We are trying to prevent an early apocalypse. I don't know about Auras, but I have a beast's teeth… and eyes… because I am a Demon, and each Demon has a mark of the Beast somewhere upon them. And you people are not supposed to be able to see them."  
Slowly, Anathema sank down on the lone folding chair. "That's… a lot of information."  
Azrafell looked down at her archly. "You ask a lot of questions."  
"Is it true?"  
"My…" He looked at Crowley. "My companion here would thrash me if I lied.   
"You're a - a Demon. From Hell."  
Azrafell nodded. "Mm."  
Anathema looked to Crowley. "Are you one too?"  
Crowley mumbled some unintelligible syllables for a moment, debating on how to go about phrasing before finally deciding on ,"No, the opposite. And….yeah. that about covers it."  
She looked between them. "So you're an Angel? Don't Angels and Demons hate each other? Traditionally?"  
Azrafell glanced at Crowley.  
"That's a long story."  
"I have time."  
Azrafell, ever the storyteller, took a breath, and Crowley groaned inwardly. But all the demon said was "The rest of the world might not."  
Anathema frowned.  
"So. Here's the thing. We have your book." Crowley said, raising a questioning eyebrow at the Demon.  
Azrafell grimaced.   
"Agnes's book?" Anathema said, standing back up. Something in her eyes blazed, but as she looked at Azrafell, they dulled slightly. "Did you… take it?"  
"I am a Demon, it's what I do," Azrafell said. "But it's safe and sound… and you can have it back."  
"You're just going to give it to me? Why?"  
Crowly crossed his arms "Because you're going to help us."  
Anathema's smile was skeptical. "Oh, am I now?  
"Yes, you are. Good ole grandma said you would."  
"... What are you talking about?"  
"Oh come on, dont play dumb. Your grandma the witch. Seer of the future," he drawled, wiggling his fingers   
"No, I know that part," Anathema snapped. "When did Agnes say I would help you?"  
"If it helps to jog your memory," Azrafell said, "Crowley here is a genuine Principality. And he has been known, on occasion, to be rather foolish."  
"Hey!"  
"You two? You're prophecy 3008?" Anathema said.  
"I'm afraid so."  
" Look, help us and you never have to see us again, you get your book back, and you get to save the entire world. Deal?"  
Anathema set her jaw, glowering for a moment. "Only if you never take Agnes's book away from her family line again. Okay? That's my condition."  
Azrafell huffed. "Never is such a nebulous term—"  
"Zira."  
"Fine," he sighed. "Yes, deal."  
Crowley nodded. "Oh! Side note, you can tell no one about this . I'll smite you myself if you do."  
Anathema looked his way. "Good to know."  
He smiled, crinkling the golden stripes that wrapped from his tear ducts to his temples. "...Out of curiosity, what did you mean when you said our auras were...bizarre?"  
She shook her head. "They're just… a lot. I mean, reading auras is more art than science, but normal… human people have a… maximum diameter, I guess? That I've seen, anyways. But you two… you blow that away. And the colors… it's like nothing I've ever seen before." She paused. "You're really an Angel and a Demon? Really?"  
"No, I just paint gold on my face for fun. Yes we're really an Angel and a Demon. Can we please deal with the end of the world now?"  
She glanced between Crowley and Azrafell one more time and nodded.


	11. A Girl and Her Tome

They survived the drive over to the bookshop. Mostly. Anathema looked as if she'd seen the face of God herself.  
"It's always like this," Azrafell complained to her, before getting out and opening her door.  
"Thank… you," Anathema said, eyeing him and getting out.  
"Relax, Miss Device." Azrafell tapped his claws on the car door. "Honestly, I'm rather civilised."  
"More so than me," Crowley drawled.  
"Please." Azrafell snapped his fingers, and the door to the boomshop swung open. "After you."  
Crowley looked at him and shrugged as he slunk inside, and Anathema followed.  
Azrafell's bookshop was dark and full of tomes and scrolls, but he kept it neat and scrupulously clean. Everything had its proper place, down to the paper clips near the register. "To the back, please," he said. "I'll meet you by the safe. Look, Miss Device, but do not touch."  
Anathema rolled her eyes.  
Azrafell flapped his hand in a shooing motion. Crowley led Anathema away. Behind them, they heard the sound of bolts turning.  
Crowley made his way to the plushiest seat and promptly draped himself across it. He pulled out his flask and offered it to Anathema.  
"I'm… good, thanks," Anathema said. She couldn't stop a curious glance at the proffered liquor. "Is that like, Angel booze?"  
He deadpanned and drank. "It's scotch."  
"Oh."  
"So. You mentioned that there were two things you were looking for. What's the second?"  
"I'm not actually sure," she said. "Agnes was, once again, super vague. She just calls it a 'brand.' King's brand, actually. But there's not just one meaning for that sort of thing." She shrugged and sighed. "All I know is that I'm running out of time to figure it out."  
"You and everyone else."  
"So Agnes thinks I'm your key?"  
"It seems that way," Azrafell said. "But you'd know better than us." He passed by the sofa, disappearing back towards the safe.  
Crowley watch him for a second before pushing himself off the couch to follow.  
Tumblers clunked, and the safe door creaked open. Azrafell set the book on the restoration desk, and held out a wooden box. "Gloves."  
"Azrafell, she's probably had her hands on that book for longer than you've been thinking about it."  
"Since the sixteenth century?" Azrafell drawled. But he sighed and set the box down. He motioned to the book.  
Anathema sat down and opened it. "I thought it was gone for good."  
"Well, it wasn't."  
Azrafell looked sidelong at Crowley and folded his arms. "Is this… being a descendant business a full-time job?"  
Anathema nodded, leafing through the pages. "We've been interpreting her thoughts for three hundred years. And I guess we'll keep going until… the world ends."  
"And what if it doesn't?" Crowley asked, peering over her shoulder.  
"Oh, Agnes says it will," Anathema murmured. "That much, we've always been clear on."  
"Well that's...depressing."  
Azrafell shrugged. "Everything ends, angel." But he was frowning.  
"And one side wins."  
"Mm."  
"'Daye of fouled light,'" Anathema said. "Have there been any weather phenomena around here recently?"  
"Uh… no?"  
"I'm not sure what else it could mean… wait, what are you two looking for?" She asked, turning around.  
"The sword of War." Crowley slipped again. "Apparently it's been lost."  
"...Lost?"  
"Stolen," Azrafell said. "And it doesn't matter if Heaven or Hell finds it first. Either way, it jumpstarts the end times."  
"Between you and me, I'm not ready to go out in a blaze of glory yet. Although, hacking Hastur's head off might be fun."  
Azrafell smiled, bared teeth turning the expression dark. "Prick. Hastur, that is."  
"... Yeah, well… we need to look for recent anomalies dealing with light," Anathema said. "That'll tell us where the sword was when it was taken."  
"All right. You're the expert." With that, Crowley began to walk away, typing on his phone. "I'll look into it, you two keep deciphering.  
#  
Nothing. There was nothing. The English weather, for once, was obligingly average. Crowley failed to locate so much as a blip, pacing up and down the streets of London and glaring irritably at his phone.  
Fine. Fine. Fine. The only thing for it, he decided, was a quick ride back to the Green. He'd locked it up before they'd left, so no one remained. He used to leave it open to the public, but it quickly became clear to him that humans as a group had a tendency to ruin good things more than keep them nice.  
He was looking forward to some alone time with the plants. With a snap of his fingers the doors unlocked and a soft, pale yellow light light up the darkened space. The smell of the various flowers and earth calmed the blooming doubt in his chest. As much as he hated to admit it, Azrafell was right. They needed the young woman to guide them through that book, or else they would be at an utter loss. He just hoped it wasn't too late already.  
There weren't any benches in the garden, but the troughs were large enough to support a person. So Crowley sat. He rolled up the sleeves on his white button down and dug his fingers into the dirt. It was cool and damp and smelled of water and love. He brought the fist full to his nose, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes to just be in the moment. To just have a quiet break for himself.  
"You know what this doesn't look like to me?" Gabriel asked.  
Crowley hissed, fist tightening around the soil. It crumbled down onto his pants. "Do you ever knock?"  
"What would be the point of that?" Gabriel cocked his head, lilac eyes sweeping Crowley head to foot. "It doesn't look like you're scouring this lump of rock for our Sword."  
"Well, it'd be...no, you're right. I'm not. I'm taking a break." Crowley pulled a face at the Archangel's glare. "I still have to seem human. And humans don't usually spend days straight searching."  
"Why does it matter if you seem human anymore? Once we get the Sword, humanity will be… a footnote."  
"They're annoying to deal with when they're curious. I don't see you down here getting your feathers dirty."  
"Yes, about that." Gabriel grinned. "You're right. We aren't usually as… hands-on with the Earth as you tend to be, but. Michael had the wonderful idea just now, that since holy objects can't be burned by heavenly flame, if there were to be, say, a fire, any relics involved would be left untouched." He smiled. "And it's been so long since Sandalphon has razed anything."  
Crowley paled. "...and how much would be burning?"  
"Oh, all of it." Gabriel shrugged.  
"Wouldn't that...be a bad thing?" Crowley asked, struggling to keep himself composed. "It would...go...against the plan!"  
"If Hell finds the Sword before we do, they'll do it anyway. It's not going against the plan so much as it is… accelerating it. We catch Hell off-guard, without the Antichrist, a win is basically guaranteed."  
"And what would She say about that?"  
Gabriel laughed. "Between the two of us, who do you think knows the Almighty better?"  
"Neither of us. She's the Almighty, that's the point."  
Gabriel's wide Hollywood smile turned brittle. "It was a rhetorical question. Don't go getting a big head, Crowley. It wouldn't take much to make a little Principality Fall."  
Crowley winced. " I can find it. Just...just give me a week. If I don't, you can burn the whole bloody thing to the root. I just need a little more time."  
Gabriel paused. "Tell me what you know about who Hell has on the problem."  
"The demon? He isn't a problem. He's a thief, but only when he has a direct opportunity. If it's not near him, he won't go for to search it out. Likes the food and comforts if the city too much."  
"A thief… so he might have the sword already."  
Crowley shook his head. "I thought of that first. He doesn't. Besides, if he did we'd have a more obvious problem. Hell isn't exactly subtle."  
Gabriel huffed. "Fine. One week. But that's the end of your chances."  
"I'll get it done."  
Gabriel snapped. A light flashed, and he was gone.  
Alone again, the soft light above dimming, Crowley sat silently as he tried to sort his thoughts. He wasn't hyperventilating, he was just breathing hard. And very quickly. He steeled himself true panic could overtake him, however, and picked up his phone to call Azrafell. "We have a problem," he growled, before the demon could even get a word in.  
#  
"You left me alone with a human," Azrafell hissed, glancing over his shoulder to where Anathema was still hunched over the book. "You and I are going to have several problems."  
"You better be glad I did. Gabriel just left."  
"Is he taking progress reports from you now?" Azrafell asked. He paused, lowering his voice with a frown. "Are you… hyperventilating?"  
"No!" Crowley took a breath. "We have a week. He wants to dunk the world in a tub of holy fire."  
"Well that's… less than ideal," Azrafell said.  
Anathema looked up at him with a frown, but he ignored her.  
"You could say that. Please tell me you have something?"  
"Well, what do you mean by something?"  
"Anything! New, important, anything!"  
"Well, the young lady has done some… searching, on her telephone. Apparently, since the sword was stolen, seventeen towns in England have had power outages. The sword could have come from any of those."  
There was a pause. Crowley hadn't found anything of much interest when he searched earlier, and recently he had become quite proud of his technological prowess. Comparatively. To be fair, though, the only real comparison he had was to Azrafell, and he didn't think that the demon even owned a flip phone. "I was probably looking in the wrong places," Crowley muttered  
"For all of their failings, humans do have a remarkable way with that… inter-net," Azrafell said. "We were going to start looking into a few of them now. I think it would go faster if you were to dr—"  
"I got something!" Anathema shouted.  
Azrafell winced, and his expression soured further. He turned to her. "For Satan's sake, it had better not be contagious," he drawled, eyeing her new excitement with disdain.  
"No, I figured something out," Anathema said, more calmly. "In the past, we always thought that 'brande of kyng' referred to like, a crest or a standard or something. But 'brand' can also mean blade, or sword. Which would make sense, what with the missing relic being… a sword. And Sword of King sounds super general unless you speak Old English. And you know that there is a very specific word for 'King's Sword.'  
"Oh, Heaven," Azrafell swore. "Please don't say what I think you're about to say."  
"What? What is she saying?" Crowley demanded, voice crackling through the phone.  
Anathema nodded, and Azrafell groaned. "Excalibur. War's sword was bloody Excalibur."  
"...Fuck. how'd we miss that? We were there!"  
"An innate protection from occult forces, I suppose." Azrafell sighed. "If Camelot were ordained as the Sword's Place Of Rest, they wouldn't want just anyone removing it."  
"Not occult. so, we go to Camelot, see if anyone saw someone walking around with a sword and track the guy down?"  
"Mm. You'll be driving, I take it? This does, I am realizing, explain quite neatly how Arthur managed to be massively successful and be an equally massive berk."  
"You're right about that. I'll be over in a few."  
"Marvelous." Azrafell hung up, and turned to Anathema. "We're going to Camelot."


	12. A Rough Start

Crowley pulled up to the bookstore. speakers Under Pressure by David Bowie and Queen spilling from the open windows, and laid on the horn.  
Azrafell bundled Anathema out of the shop, locking up behind her and ushering her to the car. He opened the door for her, before settling in himself.   
"Strap in," Crowley called over the music before setting off just before the young woman could do so.  
"So you two really knew King Arthur?" Anathema asked. "Were you working together then too?"   
Azrafell shifted in his seat, leather creaking.  
"I worked with him, he didn't. It was miserable, damp, cold and dull."  
"At least you weren't camped out in the woods with a load of bloody peasants," Azrafell muttered.   
"Point taken."  
"So you two were enemies, but… now you aren't?" Anathema asked.   
"I wouldn't say enemies. Just not friends." Crowley glanced over at Azrafell.  
The Demon looked down at his claws.   
#  
A few minutes passed in silence, when Azrafell said, "You… do know where you're going, don't you?"  
"Of course I do! It's just...a...uh, we're...well, do you know?"  
"Obviously! One tends not to forget where one has lived for over a hundred years. You just go up… or… wait. No, it's…" he paused. "Oh, Hell."  
"So you don't know where we're going?" Anathema asked, leaning forward with a frown.   
Azrafell growled. "Pull over, Crowley."  
The Angel did so, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What is going on? It's..slick. the memory's slick."  
Azrafell opened the door and got out. He clasped his hands behind his back and started to pace.   
Crowley sat silently for a few moments before smacking the wheel. "Shit! We should have known it was shielded!"  
"Save your breath, angel," Azrafell muttered. "We'll just… have to find it the old fashioned way."  
"And how's that? We can't even think right about it!"  
Azrafell's lip twisted a little, showing teeth. "Maps, charts, cross-referencing."  
"I have cartographer's equipment back at the hotel," Anathema said.  
Azrafell looked at her, cold and unreadable, and she sat back a little.  
"You still need a vague idea about it. We can't just wander around the continent." Crowley leaned on the Bentley. "Can you remember anything besides events? Any surrounding lands? Because even if you could, they don't exist anymore! Camelot could be anywhere in this bloody country, and I can guarantee you that the minute we get close to finding it, we'll be blocked."  
Azrafell stopped pacing to glare.  
"That might not be… entirely true," Anathema said. "About the landscape, at least."  
Crowley glanced down at her.  
"Well… the Reign of King Arthur was less than a thousand years ago. Any sort of dominant geological feature you can remember should still exist in one form or another. Rivers might work for reference too."  
Azrafell cocked his head. "Perhaps."  
"Well, back to the hotel then," Crowley said.   
“Back to the hotel.”  
#  
"So,” Anathema said. She was looking at a website on her tablet. “Most people figure Camelot was where Caerleon is now, and Carleon is where one of the outages happened. It might be a good place to start…"  
Azrafell shook his head.  
"What?"  
"It won't be where everyone supposes it is if its been hidden by a divine force." The Demon waved a hand. "Archaeologists wouldn't find anything special—or remember finding anything special, anyway—to set it apart."  
Crowley huffed as he leaned against the wall. "So we start fresh, try and suss out what was around it."  
"So…" Anathema gestured.  
"Well," he sighed. "The castle itself wasn't around much. Despite what everyone says, Aurthur was a bastard. He didn't like dirt, and peasants had a lot of it. It was still surrounded by the town, but with like a...kilometer of space between them? Just open field mostly. There was a forest behind the town, south I think, but besides that…nothing much. It was a nightmare to defend."  
"He was an idiot," Azrafell agreed. "There was a… copse of trees on the shadow of a hill, with a spring-fed river running through it. About two kilometers… in some direction from the town itself."  
"Oh, I remember that! Muggy as hell, really."  
"Stank like Hell too, but that might have been more the people than an inherent flaw in the land."  
"Could've just been you."  
Azrafell looked at him flatly. "Ha."  
"Okay, some of that was helpful," Anathema murmured. She opened her tablet, setting it down beside a heavily annotated map of the English countryside.  
"Oh! There was a...a cliff Guenivere liked to escape to nearby, opposite the spring. I'd have to go with her sometimes when she was tired of the castle. It just overlooked the fields."  
Azrafell and Anathema blinked.  
"You had to accompany Guenivere when she went out? You were Lancelot?" Azrafell looked somewhere between shocked and impressed. "That's hardly angelic of you. However did you get that one over on Gabriel?"  
Crowley quirked an eyebrow at him. "Get away with what? I did my job, and she was bored. Arthur knew jack all about talking to women."  
The corner of Azrafell's mouth quirked. "But she was a married woman, angel. Surely your side frowns on that sort of thing."  
"On talking? Have you met Gabriel?"  
There was a pause. Anathema lifted a hand to cover her mouth. Azrafell was looking less impressed by the moment.   
'"What?"  
"Oh, nothing, angel. Nevermind." Azrafell turned to Anathema. "Do the cliffs narrow it down at all?"  
Anathema looked back down at the charts. "Yes… I think it should…"  
"How long do you think it'll take to have a good idea about where it is?"  
"I can't say yet, it's too early, and we don't have much." Anathema glanced up at Crowley.  
"Well...what else could we do? Does that book say anything else?"  
"Uh…." Anathema opened it up. "Some stuff about 'yellow chariots taking brief flight… 'Watch thee for ye bairne, Fiende…'" She paused, looking up at Azrafell. "Does that mean anything to you?"  
The Demon shook his head.   
Anathema looked back at the book. "Huh… oh! This might help us with location. Prophecy 3011… 'Notte all Fyre is Fallinge.' Falling fire might mean a meteor shower, so maybe something that looks like a meteor shower but doesn't actually… fall to earth? We can see if there are any upcoming astronomical events visible from particular towns involving stuff that doesn't fall."  
"Maybe it's just thrown," Crowley muttered  
"Thrown?" Anathema asked. "The… fire?"  
" It's holy fire. She's reminding us of our time limit. It's holy fire. "  
"Woah, woah, no one told me anything about a time limit," Anathema said.  
Crowley paused and slowly shifted his gaze over to the demon.  
"Oh, forgive me for trying not to alarm the human for once," Azrafell snapped. "Would you rather I said 'actually my dear, we really should speed this up, because the ethereal bastard who stole Elizabeth Taylor's eyes is rather jazzed to Sodom and Gomorrah your whole world a week from now?' How would that have gone over, do you think?"  
"... Like a lead balloon," Anathema said weakly.  
"You didn't have to say it like that!"  
"Oh, so not saying anything at all is bad, but lying about the severity isn't? It's the apocalypse, Crowley! I'm not about to sugarcoat it."  
"You just said you weren't planning on telling her! How do you sugarcoat more than that?"  
"Guys, guys!" Anathema paused as the two entities turned their attention to her, seeming to realize the potential gravity of addressing some of the primordial forces of Order and Chaos like they were roughhousing secondary schoolers. "It's fine. I know now. We have a week. We can do this."  
Crowley looked her over and something in her relative calm in the face of supernatural arguments and the end of the world settled the swirling in his gut. Just a little. Still, he took out his flask and drank deeply.  
"So. We need to start somewhere. Do you know how do demark charts? It would go faster with three of us."  
"Maybe." Crowley rolled his eyes at her look. "I'm sorry celestials don't use maps often."  
"I can." Azrafell settled in the computer chair and unfolded another map. "What were the towns with the outages?"  
Anathema handed him a slip of paper.   
Crowley grumbled and sat on the floor. "Pass me one."  
#  
Azrafell hailed a cab. Crowley had offered him a ride, but he'd turned it down. His head ached like someone had rung consecrated bells in his ears. People. For hours. Azrafell didn't do people. Humanity was loud and fast and abrasive, and too much of them at once made his chest hurt in funny ways. Not to mention Crowley, acting so off lately. Azrafell had been trying to parse the problem all day, but the catalyst, whatever it was, remained elusive to him.  
A black taxi pulled up, and he settled inside. "The Ritz," he said.  
"Azrafell," a dark, almost bored voice drawled from the front seat. The smell of rot and sulfur filled the cab as its owner peered back in the rearview.   
"Ligur," Azrafell said. "What a…. Surprise."  
"Not just Ligur," another familiar voice said. Azrafell didn't bother looking at the new occupant of the cab. "You're a hard fiend to get in touch with," Hastur said.  
"That is rather the point of my being 'under cover,'" Azrafell said. "I thought you two were opposed to in-person visits. And here I am getting two in under a week."  
"We are," Ligur growled. "But you're holding onto something very important, Azrafell. Where is the sword?"  
Azrafell thought fast, keeping his face distant. He sighed. "I told you. It's not the right time yet."  
"When is the right time?" Ligur demanded. "Lord Beelzebub wants the sword now, it could be the reason we win the war."  
"Ah, but why, my scaly, ah… associate, why say could when you could say will?"  
Hastur frowned. "... what?"  
Azrafell rolled his eyes. "I'm keeping the sword hidden for now. But as soon as Hell has it, Heaven will know. Why not wait till they're distracted to make our move and guarantee victory?"  
"They aren't distracted. I hear they have Crowley looking for it." Ligur's eyes shifted crimson at the name. "And Gabriel himself has been checking in. They'll find it soon, Azrafell. It's safer with us."  
Crowley. They knew he was on the task too. If Azrafell didn't shut them down now, there would be nothing to stop them eliminating the ethereal threat. What could he give them? What did they hate more than Crowley… oh. "Oh, you haven't heard," he purred.  
"Heard what?"  
"Crowley is officially out of Gabriel's good books. Not that he was ever really in them. Gabriel is impatient. In seven days, he's going to raze the world. And everything on it."  
"Really?"  
“I have it on very good authority,” Azrafell said.   
“Whose?” Hastur said.   
“Gentlemen, please. Information is my whole game. You just need to know my word is good.”  
Ligur glared. "And how do we know you're telling the truth? You haven't shown us the sword."  
Azrafell rolled his eyes. “I can’t. Once I break its protection, it becomes visible to Heaven. And believe me, that we do not need.”  
"Still. you've shown us nothing."  
“When, precisely, have I failed to come through?” Azrafell said tetchily. “I think I have more than earnt myself seven days of goodwill.”  
"Fine. But we're watching you, Azrafell."  
“I shall consider myself watched.” He paused, looking around at where the cab still idled by the curb. “Ligur, do you… know how to drive?”  
"No."  
“Right. Well then, if you’ll excuse me, I need to catch another cab.” Azrafell opened the door.  
"Seven days," Ligur called  
“You’ve got it,” Azrafell called. He closed the door.   
He needed a drink.  
#  
Crowley was already drinking alone at the dive bar down the street. He'd been shooed out of the hotel just after Azrafell left, and frankly he couldn't be happier. The demon was starting to get on his nerves. Every so often Crowley caught a wandering glance his way, the expression on Azrafell's face blank and...careful almost. It made him feel fragile. He wasn't fragile.  
He finished his drink. Six more days until it all went up in flames. Or not, if they actually managed to find the sword. Crowley had hopes. Anathema was quick and intelligent after all, seemingly finding this much easier than either the Angel or the Demon did. But was she quick enough? Gabriel's words rang in his head and he wondered if it would hurt as much for the humans as it had for him. He hissed softly to himself. One breath. Two. Three. Up to ten, forcing the images of fire and blood from his head. After all, there wasn't time for the past. the entire future was at stake. Crowley waved over the bartender for another round.


	13. Rome

It had been nearly three centuries since Crowley had last seen Azrafell. After the Demon had left mid-Crucifixion, all had gone quiet. Crowley didn't know whether to be relieved or worried.  
He had just arrived in Rome, pulled away by Gabriel from the rather lovely little settlement of Celts he had been spending time with up North, and he was travel-weary. After waving down a bartender and asking for a pint of 'something drinkable,' he collapsed onto a stool and put his head in his hands.  
"So," a familiar voice asked. "Still an Angel, then?"  
He rolled his eyes and glanced over his shoulder. "What kind of stupid question is that? What else am I going to be, an aardvark?" He took a long drink from the cup that had been set in front of him.  
Azrafell laughed a little. "Someone's in a nasty mood. What brings you back to Rome, dear boy? I thought you gave the whole place up after that matter with the Carpenter."  
"Work. Apparently I've been too much of a shut-in."  
"Oh, not doing enough Good, are we?" Azrafell asked.  
"I am, just not here. Why do you care anyway? It's better for your lot."  
"Yes, 'my lot,'" Azrafell muttered sourly. "I'm just making conversation, Angel. If you'd rather I left you alone with the humans, nothing would be easier."  
Crowley drank again "So do it. I'm sure you've got things to burn and people to tempt."  
"Fine." Crowley felt the Demon's presence at his shoulder fade… and then return again. "Are you… all right?"  
"I'm fine, Azrafell," he grumbled. "Just tired."  
"Right. Yes. Well. I was, ah… I was going to pop down to Patroclus' new restaurant later. I hear he does remarkable things to Oysters."  
Crowley scrunched his nose. "Oysters?"  
"Yes, they're delightful."  
'Never tried them. They just seem slimy."  
"Never? Oh, well. Let me tempt you to dinner," Azrafell said. "I'm sure I can change your mind."  
For the first time since he'd approached, Crowley took a proper look at Azrafell. He looked much the same as Crowley remembered, white curls hanging in ringlets to just past his shoulders. The neat, well-kempt beard. The pale eyes. He could almost pass for mundane, if it weren't for the claws tapping his goblet, or the vast emptiness of those blue irises. He smiled, and Crowley was reminded for a moment of Alexandria.  
He wasn't sure he trusted the demon, given prior experience with him and others like him. But Crowley was tired, in a place he'd rather not be and, although he'd never admit it, the company of a familiar face seemed a pleasant enough distraction at the moment. He couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped him. "It is what you do...fine. just this once. But you're paying."


	14. A Brief Interlude

Lying to his higher-ups wasn't exactly new, Azrafell thought, swirling his ChateauNeuf du Pape in its glass. He sniffed the wine, savoring its odour. He lied all the time. So why was this lie giving him butterflies in his stomach?  
Was it the Angel?  
No, that would be absurd. He wasn't, after all, helping Crowley (not just helping Crowley). He was helping himself (so he kept saying). Heaven or Hell, either way, no matter who had the sword, Azrafell's life on Earth would be finished. And then he'd have to go back. To the dark. He wondered absently, as the waiter set the steaming filet down before him, how many centuries of rhetoric and propaganda and dismal halls and desperation it would take before he became simply another brainwashed, brainless stooge like Hastur and Ligur.   
The wine soured in his mouth, and he set the glass aside, claws tapping a slow tattoo on the tablecloth.   
Damn. Damn, damn, damn.  
#  
The next day was a scouting day. They'd made some headway last night, picking out a handful of towns that could possibly be the place they were looking for. They didnt know what to expect, but then again, no one would until they looked.   
Crowley was quiet as he drove up to the bookstore, shoulder length hair a little frizzy and his clothes seeming messy in a way that wasn't quite purposeful. It wasn't new for him, he still liked looking good, but today he'd cared less than normal. He just wanted to get this over with.  
Azrafell opened the passenger door and peered at him for a moment.   
"Hi."  
"Hello." He settled in. "Before we pick up the young lady I feel I should tell you."  
"Well this sounds promising."  
"Hastur and Ligur came to visit again last night. They seemed very keen to have the sword as soon as possible."  
"Wonderful. What did you say?"  
"What do you think I said?" Azrafell drawled. "Foisted it all on Gabriel. We have seven days. And then they'll come looking. If we want to find this thing, we have to find it quickly."  
Crowley at arched an eyebrow at him and started driving. "No throwing me under the bus. I'm surprised, Zira."  
Azrafell glanced at him. "Why should that surprise you?"  
"Isn't that what Demons do? Cause trouble for the divine?"  
"I haven't endangered the Arrangement in six millennia, angel. I'm not about to start now."  
The other eyebrow joined the first, but crowley said nothing more.  
When Anathema met them outside, and Azrafell opened the door so she could get in, she took in the deafening silence "Everything… okay here?"  
"Tickety-boo," Azrafell muttered, getting back into the car.  
"...Tickety-boo?" Crowley snickered  
Azrafell shot him a look. "So, Miss Device. You have the reins."  
Anathema withdrew two copper, L-shaped rods from her bag and held them, swinging them gently side-to-side. At the leftmost point of her turn, the rods crossed each other, making an X.   
"Southwest, that's… Michael's Marsh, isn't it?" That's southwest of here on the map."  
"Michael's Marsh it is."  
#  
Anathema watched the Angel and the Demon. Neither of them were talking much. Azrafell looked out the window. Crowley looked at the road. Neither of them looked at each other. The Demon's aura swirled, deep crimsons and purples shot through with flashes of blue-white light. Crowley's was random to the point of almost being chaotic, the gold looking tarnished and muted, flashing quickly with dark blues, greys and scarlet. Something had happened since last night.   
She just hoped whatever it was, it wasn't enough to stop them from succeeding.  
"After we find where the sword came from," Anathema asked, "what next?"  
"See if we can find who took it. Maybe there were cameras or people around," Crowley said.   
"Okay." Anathema paused. "And… then what? Does Heaven or Hell have like, facial recognition or something?"  
"Humans do," he said blandly. " I'm sure we could think of something."  
Azrafell hummed agreement.  
"Let's worry about getting there first."


	15. Bairnes and Chariots Yellowe

Azrafell stepped out of the car and breathed deeply. His face softened in an uncharacteristically gentle smile. Away from London, the air was clearer and cleaner. The sun shone on his face. It was… idyllic.   
In a week, it might not be.  
His expression soured, and he clasped his hands behind his back.  
"I saw that," the Angel chuckled so he passed. "You almost looked happy."  
Azrafell looked at Crowley flatly. "Your eyes are playing tricks on you." He stepped aside to allow Anathema out.  
"I dont think so. That shell's starting to fall apart, Zira. So! Where are we going?"  
The flat look became a glare as Anathema held up the dowsing rods. Azrafell turned away, making sure no one was paying attention. The Bentley itself as attracting some looks from passersby, but Azrafell's attention was usually more than enough to send them on their way.  
"Left," Anathema said.  
they turned left, walking silently. Azrafell let Crowley and Anathema take the lead. Watching the Angel and the witch walk side by side, looking at the dowsing rods like they themselves held secrets untold, he felt that odd thing twist in his chest again. What had Crowley meant when he said the shell was falling apart?  
"Keep up!"  
Azrafell shook his head to clear it, grudgingly quickening his steps.  
It was a pleasant view as they walked. Every so often a driveway and a lonely cottage would peek out of the woods.  
"Any change?" Azrafell eventually asked, peering back over his shoulder at the empty road. Was it too empty?   
Hell had made him paranoid.   
"Nope," Anathema said. "It just keeps pointing me straight ahead."  
"We'll get there eventually...why did you tell me to park so far away?"  
"The rods stopped giving me clear readings from the car. Usually that means I'm right on top of what I need to find."  
"Could it be interference from the blade's protection?" Azrafell asked.  
"Maybe…" Anathema harrumphed. "But it's not like I can't get a reading now. It's coming in strong."  
Azrafell craned his neck to see the rods. They were holding firm in an X shape. "Are they quite old?" He asked.  
Anathema nodded. "They were Agnes's."  
"Hmm…"  
Crowley looked around. "This doesn't feel familiar."  
"Would Agnes have any ulterior motives in this cause, Miss Device?" Azrafell asked.  
"No… she's always seemed very pro-human-survival before."  
"Hm," Azrafell said again.  
Crowley glanced back at him. "Stop lurking and come up here, you may see something I'm missing. After all, you were out more than me back then."  
"I'm not lurking, I'm trailing," Azrafell said. But he finally came to walk beside Anathema; though he walked farther from her than Crowley did.  
A few driveways down, a girl of maybe nine was making figure-eights on a scooter.   
"Mary!" A woman called. "Come get some tea!"  
Mary dropped her scooter in the driveway and trotted inside. "Coming, mum!"  
All fell silent again.   
In the distance, a growl.   
Azrafell frowned. It wasn't an organic sound. It was metallic, mechanical. And it was getting louder fast.   
He turned just in time to see a yellow sports car tear around a blind turn in the road. It drifted on the asphalt, kicking up dust and smoke as the back end swung far out. Azrafell reached out and grabbed Crowley and Anathema's collars, pulling them back and onto the moss bordering the lane. The vehicle still passed by close enough to knock the dowsing rods from Anathema's hands, and they clattered to the earth.  
Anathema rubbed her neck. "Wow, thank you," she said.   
But Azrafell wasn't listening. His vision pulsed red. He stepped into the road and snapped.   
The car, a 2018 Mazerati, experienced several simultaneous, catastrophic mechanical failures.   
With a bang that echoed up and down the street, the two rear tires exploded. The car was sent into a skid. Brake lights pulsed on and off, though the brakes themselves seemed to have no effect.   
"What are you doing?" Anathema cried.  
"Azrafell! Stop!"  
Azrafell's face had twisted into a snarl of vindictive glee, but the expression faded as he realized that the car's trajectory would take it straight into the third driveway down from them.  
Where Mary was standing frozen, having just retrieved her discarded scooter.   
Azrafell didn't think. He just snapped.  
The car collided with the line of trees along the driveway with a crash, and a twisted shriek of rending metal. Smoke filled the air.   
Azrafell started to run.   
He hadn't run in quite some time, a millennium or two at least, and he found he didn't much care for it. But the freezing pit of horror currently turning his entrails to ice forced his legs to pump.   
Why was the child there? There shouldn't have been a child there! What if…? No, it didn't bear thinking about.   
The smoke cleared as he approached, revealing the mangled remains of the car, the driver moaning somewhere inside.  
And also revealing the little girl, white as death and clutching her pink scooter, whom the car had missed by no more than six inches.  
Azrafell dropped to his knees.  
He heard footsteps pounding behind him and Crowley shouting "check on the girl!" Before he knew it, the Angel was beside him and reaching through the mangled car to get a hand on the driver. "Let's make sure nothing's broken before we get you out." He waved a hand and there was the sound of faint, but sickening snaps. "Not too bad. Help me."  
Azrafell set his jaw and did as the Angel asked, moving woodenly as he pulled the man from the wreck. There was the smell of smoke, and blankly, unthinkingly, ge snuffed the beginnings of the fire before it could spread.  
He could feel Crowley's eyes on him as they helped the man lay down a safe distance away from the wreck. "Well," Crowley said with a breathless little huff. "That could've been worse. Thought we lost you there for a second."  
"I don't know what you mean," Azrafell said. Mary's mother had come running from the house, and he watched her sweep the child up into a fierce embrace. "We should go."  
Crowley nodded. "The police will be here soon. Come on. Anathema," he called.  
Anathema stated at the wreck. "Where are we going?" She asked.  
"Away from here. Get you things " Crowley snapped his fingers as he started leading them from the direction they came. "They won't even remember our faces."  
"Oh, good," anathema said, numbly.  
#

Crowley waited until they were far enough away to speak. He'd seen the rage in Azrafell's eyes and, honestly, was too shocked that he'd so obvious in front of a human to stop him. He could have, but he didn't have to. Ny the time he was ready to counteract, the Demon had already done it. Metal hit wood and, miraculously, the child was alright. Crowley's surprise only grew when Azrafell ran towards the scene. Only when he'd caught up did he see something akin to regret and relief flash in Azrafell's eyes. "That was...surprising," Crowley said, glancing over at the Demon. "I half expected to have to revive him from near death."  
"Hm. Odd though it may appear to an Angel, not all Demons work through means of solely death and destruction," Azrafell said. He stared ahead of them, hands once more behind his back. He was the picture of nonchalance, but for a hollowness to his eyes, so slight and so hidden that only someone who had known the Demon for millennia could pick up on it.  
"You've been more brutal over less. I think being up here for so long has changed you, Zira. That was divine intervention if I've ever seen it. Well...the last bit was."  
"Don't say that," Azrafell said softly.  
"Why not? There's nothing bad about not killing people. It's okay to have a nice streak."  
Azrafell hissed a breath, the sound bitter.  
"Oh you're fine. I won't tell."  
Azrafell looked at him then, and as well as Crowley knew the Demon, he couldn't quite make out the expression on his face.  
"Yes?"  
"You clearly have something to say," Azrafell said. "Do speak your mind."  
"I'm just acknowledging a good act. What's wrong with that? I'm glad everyone got out alright and I'm glad that you didn't...give into more instinctive actions."  
"Instinct," Azrafell repeated.  
"Yeah, anger, violence. I still remember it, Azrafell. Even though mine was more temptation, but everyone's different."   
"How base you must think me," Azrafell said evenly. "After all, you've left all that instinct behind."  
Crowley frowned. "I didnt say that. Look, Angels kill people for stupid reasons, demons kill people for stupid reasons. You didn't though."  
"And what does that make me, Angel?"  
"Complex, I guess. You're capable of kindness when others aren't, even after Falling."  
Azrafell stopped walking.  
It took a few steps, but both Crowley and Anathema eventually noticed. "Azrafell?"  
Azrafell smiled, but it was devoid of warmth. Really, it was devoid of anything. "Take it back," he said.  
"Why?" Crowley asked, pulling a face. "It's true and it's fine. Come on, we have a sword to find."  
"Ah, yes, the Worm and the Witch, off to save the world," Azrafell said. "It's all right for you to cast aspersions, Crowley." He began to advance. "After all, look how far you've come."  
The Angel's expression turned dark. "...What did you call me?"  
"Right, right, my apologies," Azrafell said. "You aren't a Worm anymore, are you? You got another chance. How lucky for you. Tell me, Crawley, I'm dying to know. Are you a better Angel than you were a Demon?"  
There was a pause, the silence broken only by the faint sound of Crowley's teeth grinding. "I didn't choose this any more than you," he hissed. "And it isn't good on either side."  
"Oh, I think you'll find your side is definitely Good," Azrafell said. "Ask anyone. Heaven is Good, and Hell is Evil. Someone Up There must be halfway decent at least, otherwise why would they keep around a pity project like you?"  
"Fuck you!" Crowley spat. Something broke in the back of his gaze. "You're just saying that because you're history's biggest cockup! We wouldn't even be in this mess because of you! Giving the sword away like it was some harmless trinket, you did this to yourself! It's not my fault you were dragged into the sulfur." Crowley closed the distance between them, bringing his face only and inch from Azrafell’s. So close, and so angry, his eyes burned the surface of Crowley’s mind like frostbite. "And at least I was a real Demon. You didn't see the Fall. You didn't have to watch as the stars burned past as you and your friends plummeted from Heaven. You didn't feel your wing snap and stab into your lungs on impact, you didn't have to drag your broken body off the ground. You weren't betrayed, you Fell because you're an idiot who didn't think that Gabriel wouldn't like his toy given away. You even got off easy, living up here for most of your life!"  
Azrafell smiled, and his breath, usually fresh with the smell of mint and tea, reeked of rotting fruit and old meat. "I may not have had the pleasure of an organic swan dive into my damnation, Angel, but do not presume to know the depths of my pain. At least I wear it with pride. I don't bury it in my own, sad little Eden. Grow up."  
Crowley growled. "You don't wear it with pride, you tell yourself that because you're afraid to take an honest look.'  
Azrafell scoffed. "I know what I am. Can you say the same? I've never seen an Angel so half-baked. Maybe you caught the Almighty on an off day."  
It took everything in Crowley's being not to launch himself at the demon. Maybe he would have, if he hadn't caught a glimpse of Anathema from the corner of his eye. "Don't assume that you know my pain either, Demon," he said through gritted teeth. "You cannot begin to know, and you never will while you're wallowing in that ocean of self pity." With that, he turned, walking stiffly and quickly past Anathema and towards the Bentley.   
"Oh, go to Hell."  
There was the sound of flapping wings, and when Crowley turned around, Azrafell was gone.  
He felt sick and tired and his head. Was. Pounding. Every cell in his body vibrated with rage towards the Demon and a sort of sadness he didn't want to take over. He didn't even look Anathema in the eye as he called, "Let's go."  
Anathema hung back a moment or two too long before approaching the Bentley. She sat in the passenger seat and looked down at her hands.  
Crowley took off much faster than normal initially before remembering the little girl's face and slowing to a more reasonable speed. At some point he registered that his cheeks were wet .  
"Do you guys… fight like that a lot?" Anathema asked into the quiet. She still wasn't quite looking at him.  
"...no." his voice was rough. "I'm...I'm sorry you had to see that."  
"It's… it is what it is," she said. "Tensions are high. The world is ending."  
Crowley exhaled something like a laugh. "Yeah, it is."


	16. Forging On, One Demon Down

Azrafell arrived back at the bookshop in a flurry of brightly burning feathers. His legs gave out and he collapsed to his knees behind the register, biting back a scream. Now he recalled why he rarely flew, as his upper back spasmed and he couldn't do anything but brace his hands on the floor and wait for it to pass.   
Crowley was right, when he said Aziraphale never Fell. A Fall, as Dagon and Beelzebub had soon discovered, was actually rather a hard thing to recreate in a controlled setting. Therefore, Azrafell was what was left of an Angel who did not Fall so much as… Shatter.   
Azrafell had never broached the subject with Crowley, of course. What would be the point? Especially now, at the end of it all?  
Some small part of Azrafell wished that the last words he'd said to the Angel before holy immolation hadn't been so cruel.   
The rest of him told that part to shut up. As the pain became slightly more manageable, he crawled over to the bottles of whiskey he kept under the register.  
#  
It was early evening when Crowley came back to the house, and he was trying not to think about how little progress they'd made. Both he and Anathema agreed that they'd reconvene in the morning, after they'd had a chance to rest and try and forget.  
His back had been burning since the argument, a low, dull ache centered at the roots of his wings. But as he shuffled to his room another, equally unpleasant and familiar sensation bubbled up. His chest felt tight and cold, his limbs quivering without reason while his fingers and toes went numb. Like a fire was being washed away with water that was just about to freeze. It brought him back to different memory.  
No other entity had experienced a Rising before, but if one came to Crowley to ask if it was worth it, he would send them back to whatever pit they crawled out of. As he lay on his bed, he tried not to think of it. The broken, bloody, visceral mess of the Fall, or the frigid drowning that came with Rising. He tried to drown out Azrafell's words and the aching in his chest he refused to name. He just breathed.   
Eventually Monty slithered up onto his lap, but he for his comfort and hers. He desperately wished he could sleep, block out the memories and the tightness in his chest. But the world was ending. Sitting up with a heavy sigh, he took Morty and wrapped her around his shoulder. It was time to do some serious thinking.  
#  
The sun came up eventually, but Crowley didn't notice. He was too busy pacing. the majority of his night was spent either wearing a thin line into the floor or tapping furious on his phone. His eyes ached from the hours spent staring at the screen, but something was nagging at the back of his head and he couldn't let it go. Then it clicked. He grinned, rushing to grab his glasses and keys.  
Anathema opened her door when Crowley pounded on it, rubbing her eyes sleepily. "Mm-hmm?"  
He pushed past her, looking around the room. "Where are your maps?"   
"In my satchel… what are you doing here?" she asked, folding her arms.  
"I thought of something."  
"What did you think of?"  
He rummaged through her bag until he found what he was looking for.  
"Hello?" Anathema came up behind him. "I know I'm not some celestial being or whatever, but I thought we were working together?"  
"We are, just...there!" Ge pulled out the map he was looking for and laid it on the table. "Remember the list we had?"  
"Yeah… what about it?"  
"We missed a town," he said, pointing at a spit on the map.  
"How did we miss a town?" Anathema asked. "We listed all the ones that met our criteria."  
"We didn't. We were too focused on the paper maps." Crowley pulled out his phone and held next to the map. "Your rods were pointing us in the right direction, we just didn't know it. These were made by hand, so of course they'd miss it."  
"What do you mean 'of course they'd miss it?'" Anathema said. "Slow down."  
"Look!"  
"At what?"  
Crowley made a face and pointed at both the map and his phone. "This town doesn't exist on this map. I bet the protection magic didn't account for computer location systems. And look at where it is."  
"... Southwest."  
"And what direction where those fancy sticks of yours pointing?"  
"But this town, Fenny Lake, didn't have blackout. There was no 'fouled light."  
"There are other things that could mean. Smoke, fog, communal blindness. Won't know until we find out."  
Anathema nodded grudgingly. "Just the two of us, then?"  
"Obviously. Come on, if we leave now we could be back before lunch "  
"Sure, okay. Lead the way."  
#  
"So," Anathema said. Now that Crowley's initial burst of manic energy had died down, he was quiet. On the ride back yesterday, his aura had been ablaze, so bright Anathema couldn't even look straight at him. It was better today, but still swirled with discord and turmoil. "If you don't want to answer, that's okay, but… what was that about, yesterday? It seemed like there was a lot to unpack there…"  
The angel did not answer immediately, waiting silently for just long enough that anathema thought he wouldn't respond. "There was. It's a...very long story."  
"Well, we have a… moderately long car ride. If you're willing to tell it."  
Crowley sighed. "How much do you know about how humans came to be?"  
"Uh… I know several theories," Anathema said. "Was it in the Garden? Were you… there?"  
"I was."  
"Oh."  
"That's where Azrafell and I first met, actually."  
"Oh!... so wait. Was he… with the Apple?"  
"Actually that was me. Funny thing, Morality was a pretty decent thing to tempt Eve into gaining."  
"You were the serpent?" Anathema looked incredulous.  
"I was. He was Aziraphale, guardian of the Eastern Gate. I was Crawley. I did Good, he did Evil, neither of us knew that and...now we're here." He rolled up his sleeve and held out his wrist. On it was a thin, black serpent, coiled and pointing down towards his palm.  
"... Oh, wow. I… that is a lot of baggage."  
Crowley nodded. "It is."  
"What…" she paused. "I mean. This isn't my place to ask, but… what did Azrafell do that was so Evil he… Fell?"  
"He gave humanity his sword. thought it would help keep Adam and Eve safe."  
"That… doesn't sound evil to me."  
"It didn't to me either." Crowley's expression soured. "But Gabriel didn't see it that way."  
Anathema frowned. "Oh."  
Crowley nodded.  
"So he has… a lot of reasons to be angry."  
"....guess so."  
She nodded. For a long moment, all was silent. "... do you?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"Well… You seemed pretty mad too. And… we have six days where we'll be working in pretty close quarters. This is the first time Agnes has put me in a situation without giving me a lot to go on. I'm just… feeling things out."  
The car fell silent again. Crowley's hands were white knuckles in the wheel and he stared ahead as if nothing else existed in the world. "I'll let you figure that out," he said quietly.  
She nodded. "That's fair."  
#  
The rest of the ride was quiet. They followed the GPS and Anathema's dowsing rods until they reached their destination. Crowley slid out of the car, peering about at what was once the height of civilization with a look of bored disbelief. "...really?"  
"Oh, it's quaint!" Anathema said.  
"It's nonexistent. This isn't even a town, it's a...blip."  
"I think it's sweet. Come on, this way."  
He grumbled as he did, shoving his hands in his pockets.  
As they walked, Crowley felt something stir at the back of his mind.


	17. Camelot

It was cold. Even for november, it was cold. Crowley supposed that the one good thing about these awful suits of armour was that they did keep one warm.  
He was riding through the woods with his squire in the early morning mist. He didn't like it. In fact, he hated it. But Arthur had the idiotic suspicion that his Queen had taken a romantic interest in the angel, so now he was sending Crowley on a mission as a thinly veiled attempt to keep him away for at least a week. or forever, if the King was lucky.   
A peasant, in black rags, shambled out of the fog. "Who goes there?"  
"A knight of the Round Table, can't you see the crest? Look, I need to find a mage. live around here, wears a lot of black, likes to cause trouble?"  
"... wait there," the peasant said, turning and shuffling away.  
"Sir?" The squire asked. His name was Edmund… something or other. Pulsyferre? Pulsypher?  
"What Ed?"  
"May I speak freely?"  
"I told you, you don't have to ask."  
The young man sighed. "Well, begging your pardon, Sir. But if we are to face down this mage and free the land of his dark magicks, why has the King not sent more men?"  
"Because he didn't want to waste the resources," a smooth voice said from behind them.  
Crowley turned. "Hey, Azrafell!"  
There was a pause. "...Is that you, Crowley?"  
"Of course it's me," he said, lifting the visor of his helmet up.  
Squire Pulsyferre/Pulsypher looked at Crowley oddly.   
"What on Heaven and Hell are you doing here?" Azrafell asked. "And on a horse? I thought you despised the Britons." He wore a suit of fine clothes, with a fur-lined cape that trailed behind him (though oddly enough, it seemed to pick up no trace of dirt).  
"I do, but Gabriel doesn't. How've you been? It's been almost a century."  
"Cold, wet, and miserable. Hell has more culture than this place."   
Crowley snorted. "That's true. What are you doing here?"  
Azrafell rolled his eyes. "What I always do. King Arthur has been doing far too much Good for my side's liking… wait. Is that you?"  
"You really think that dunce can run this kingdom slone?"  
Azrafell growled. "I should have known. So while I'm here in the mud, surrounded by illiterate people who haven't even figured out regular bathing yet, you've been swanning about at the castle spreading peace and heavenly harmonies?"  
The Squire was looking between the two of them now, bemused and a little frightened. "Sir, you know the Black Mage?"  
Crowley waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah yeah, tell you about it later. Look Azrafell, there's no point in us being here if we're just going to cancel each other out."  
Azrafell frowned. "What are you saying?"  
"I'm saying that our Head Offices won't know the difference if we...took a little vacation. You said it yourself, it's awful here and we're canceling each other's influences anyway. So long as we seem to he doing something…"  
"Hm… I do believe Barbados is lovely this time of year." Azrafell stroked his beard.  
Crowley grinned. "That's the spirit."  
"Can I interest you in a spot of rum on the beach?" Azrafell asked.  
"Absolutely."  
"Shall I meet you here tomorrow at Sunrise, then?"  
"Sounds like a plan."  
"Marvelous." Azrafell turned and disappeared back into the fog.  
"Um, Sir?" Crowley's Squire asked.  
Crowley turned, having almost forgotten the boy's presence. "Damn...how much of that did you hear?"  
"All of it, Sir… what's a Barbados?"  
"Don't worry about it. look, we're gonna head back, but I have one, tiny important job for you."  
He nodded. "Anything, Sir."  
"If anyone asks where I went, don't mention this. Just make my story fantastic."  
"Shall I tell them you vanquished the Black Mage, Sir?"  
"Sure. he won't be around to bother anyone anyway."  
He nodded. "Right…"


	18. Barbados

"Fresh fruit and fermented fruit," Azrafell murmured, swirling the drink in its glass. The setting sun shone through ot, turning it into a liquid gem. "Scrumptious. I wonder who thought of it? Certainly not the Britons. Far too caught up on that old barley juice they're all so keen on for some reason."  
Crowley snorted. "First time I had it I thought it was just watered down piss."  
"Isn't it?" Azrafell drawled. He sipped. "Mm, the tropics. If they weren't so hot I might rather like them."  
"Agreed. Could put up a winter home."  
"Perhaps, Azrafell said. "Just a little, out of the way place." He pouted, and sipped again. "Though I do hear salt air is ever so hard on books."  
"You could take care of that, you're a demon. Just takes a little extra effort."  
"What about you?" Azrafell asked.  
"What do you mean what about me?"  
"When you aren't off… spreading good cheer or whatever it is your side has you do. What do you do with yourself?"  
Crowley sipped. "Drink. Sleep. go on the occasional walk through the woods."  
"Hm. Sounds idyllic."  
"It is. I've learned a lot about the local plant life actually. If I could stay in one place long enough I'd like to have a garden."  
"A garden?" Azrafell said. He looked Crowley ip and down, sidelong. "Huh."  
"What?"  
"No, nothing. I just…" he shrugged. "You might be rather good at it."  
Crowley smirked. "Thanks. so, you going back after this?"  
"Probably should, really. As loath as I am to admit it, I think for better or worse, some people on that funny little island will make history someday. I really ought to be there."  
That's unfortunate," Crowley sighed as he finished off his drink. "I was thinking the same thing."  
"But if we're there… we'll just cancel each other out again," Azrafell muttered. "A lot of good - bad - whatever - a lot of whatever that would do."  
"Can't help it really. It's not like we can just walk away from our jobs. They're literally what we were created to do."  
"Hm… well…" Azrafell sipped thoughtfully. "What if there were a way only one of us had to go?"  
Crowley rolled his golden gaze over lazily. "What do you mean?"  
"Well… if one party were to do both jobs, the blessing and the tempting… the other one, theoretically, wouldn't even have to be there."  
"...absolutely not."  
"What? Why? It makes absolute sense."  
"It does not! Do you have a death wish, Azrafell? Neither of our head offices would be happy." Crowley finished off his drink and popped a slice of pineapple into his mouth. "I didnt mean to Fall the first time, and I'm sure as hell not risking it again."  
"Oh, they'd never know," Azrafell wheedled. "Nobody ever checks up. And I obviously wouldn't tell."  
"Demons lie. And Gabriel checks...Occasionally. look, they don't like me already, I don't want to give them another reason."  
"Alternately: they don't like you already. They're keeping their distance. Know what that means?" Azrafell smiled. "Wiggle room."  
Crowley sighed deeply, looking back out over the ocean. "Ate you always this obvious with your temptations?"  
"Only when I know there's a guarantee of success." He rubbed his fingers, and a coin materialized between them. "Come on. Toss you for it."  
There was a long silent pause before Crowley finally said "Tails."  
Azrafell flipped it and caught it again. He looked at it and frowned. "Bugger."


	19. Sword: in Stone. Stone… in Shop?

Crowley gazed out at the open fields past the woods and the sparse housing, imaging where the castle and town once stood. they'd been searching for hours and hadn't found anything yet, but he knew this was the place. even if it barely counted as a town.  
"Uh… Crowley? Mister Crowley?... sir Crowley?" Anathema paused. "How am I supposed to address you? I'm new to this."  
"Just Crowley. Or Anthony. Either one works."  
"Okay. Well, Crowley, do you recognize anything yet?"  
"A little. I never saw where the sword rested, but I knew it was here. Probably somewhere by the castle." He pointed off into the fields where what looked like a cluster of houses and a storefront sat down a dirt road.  
"That was where King Arthur's castle used to be?" Anathema frowned. "Seriously?"  
"Oh, you agree with me now?"  
"No, it's just… there's a convenience store on it."  
'Good foundations. Come on."  
Crowley and anathema trudged across the fields, Anathema alternating between hiking her skirts and wielding the dowsing rods.  
"If we have to talk to anyone, follow my lead. They're more likely to forget me."  
"Really? You seem… conspicuous."  
"never said it'd be voluntary."  
"Oh…"  
"It's a last resort though," Crowley muttered. "I don't know how this town will affect things."  
"Shouldn't it be a last resort anyways?" Anathema sked, watching the copper rods swing gently back and forth. "Messing with people's minds without their knowledge or consent seems… condemnable, at best. And it feels gross, trust me."  
"It is. And you're not supposed to remember the feeling." He glanced over at her. "You're just stubborn."  
"Just because someone doesn't remember something doesn't make it better," Anathema said.  
"...point taken."  
Anathema nodded. Good."  
There was another minute of silence between them before Crowley spoke up again. "How are you so calm about this?"  
"About what?" She asked, frowning at her rods. "Does that look more southwest or west-southwest to you?"  
"Southwest...about all of this. The world ending, me and A...the Demon. Most humans couldn't cope."  
Anathema laughed. "My mom has been telling me I was destined to save the world since I was old enough to understand her. I'll admit I didn't expect… literal celestials to be involved, so that's intense… but other than that it's all… according to Agnes's plan."  
Crowley looked her over with a closed expression for a moment before his lips curled into a tiny smirk. "Well lucky us."  
"Luck, or fate?" Anathema asked absently. "We're close to something, I think."  
Crowley nodded and started really observing his surroundings, looking for anything out of the ordinary. They didn't see anything along the road, or in the town once they got there. in fact, they didn't see anything until they walked into the convenience store.  
"Now," Anathema whispered to Crowley, staring at the aberration in the middle of the shop. "I'm no expert in arthurian legend, but that looks like a stone fit for a sword."  
In the center of the shop, was a huge, cragged boulder. The linoleum had been laid around ut, the shelves set up to give space to walk around. There was a slash across one side, deep and nasty.  
Part of the rock around the slash looked freshly chipped.  
"That's it," Crowley muttered. "Bad place for it though."  
"Why… why is it there?"  
"I don't know… but we need to find who took the damn thing."  
"Excuse me," came a soft voice from the counter. The pair looked up to find a little old woman with kind eyes staring back at them with a smile. "Can I help you? I don't believe I've seen your faces before."  
Crowley shook his head. "We're just passing through. Heard there might be a story about this," he said, kicking the rock.  
"Oh! Yes, that old thing. It's been here for ages. So, where are you coming from?"  
"London," Anathema said. "Has anything… changed about the rock, recently? In the last couple of days, maybe?"  
She frowned. "Yes. Yes, there was a little bit of a change...but London? I wish I could visit again. My grandson just moved there for his first internship, you know. Such a bright young man."  
Crowley frowned and glanced over at Anathema. "I'm sure. What was the change?"  
"Oh, a young man came by and...I can't remember what happened, really. My memory isn't quite what it used to be. I was more worried about what was going on outside, to be quite honest with you. They were doing burns in the forest, you see. Supposed to help all the little trees grow better, they say, but it did make the air dreadfully smoky." She offered and apologetic smile. "Can I get you two anything? I've got some coffee brewing in the back."  
Anathema exchanged a glance with Crowley. If that wasn’t the ‘day of Fouled light,’ nothing was. "I'll pass on the Coffee, but… do you have security cameras?"  
"Yes. why would you need to see those?"  
"Well, I think the young man that came in might be a friend of mine," Anathema said. "I'm looking for him, it's really important."  
"You Should call him if he's your friend, love. I'm sure he'd like that much better."  
Anathema's smile was strained. "We had a fight," she said. "He's not answering my calls. I just want to know if he came through here; I'm really worried about him."  
"Oh…all right." She came from behind the register and lifted the hinged portion of the counter. "They're in the back."  
Anathema sighed, relieved. "Thank you so much."  
Crowley moved to follow them but the woman held out a hand. "I'm sorry dear, but it's not a very big room. it's best if you waited here. There's a bench just outside"  
He nodded and waited until they'd left to take a closer look at the stone.  
It didn't feel special. It certainly didn't feel like the resting place for the incarnation of man's bloodlust. It was just… a rock, plain and dull and grey.  
He muttered to himself briefly, making sure he didn't miss anything before making his way to the bench outside.  
When Anathema trotted out to meet him, her eyes were alight. "Check this out," she said, holding out her phone. On the screen was a grainy photograph of the CCTV feed, portraying a young man with a round face. He happened to be carrying a sword.   
The Sword.   
He held it like he wasn't sure what to do with it, and his eyes, though pixelated, were worried.  
"That's it! That's the sword." He took the phone to get a closer look. "But who is he?"  
"I think that's our next step," Anathema said. "He paid cash, so Delores didn't get a name."  
"Of course he did. Still, it's a start."  
"So!" Anathema said. "Where to now?"  
"Back to London. We have digging to do."  
#  
The Angel had dropped Anathema off at the hotel, leaving her with his address so that they could work on their mystery thief's identity later. As hopeful as he was with the development, he needed a little time alone.   
He traded his stifling suit for a pair of light blue jeans, a partially buttoned white and yellow flannel, and Monty the second that he could. As he walked, he muttered developments of their search to the snake, feeling a little bit of relief knowing how close they were. And they still had some time.  
He breathed a deep, calming lungful of air as he walked into his greenhouse. It was humid and warm, the ground beneath his bare feet damp with a thin layer of dew. The plants seemed to perk up as he walked in, and he smiled. Yes, this was just what he needed.  
"Hello, Crowley," a voice intoned behind him.   
Not Gabriel's voice.  
The Angel frowned and turned to face it. "Oh, it's you," he groaned. "What, did Gabriel finally get bored with me?"  
Sandalphon was a squat Angel. They looked like an accountant, with a bland face and receding hairline. He held his mouth open slightly to display the gold and diamond ornamentation on his teeth. He had small, hard eyes. "Bored might be the wrong word," he said, lisping slightly.  
"Well, you can tell him that I'm close to finding the sword. It'll be in Heaven's hands soon." He sat down on the lip of a trough. "Sorry to spoil the fun."  
"Oh, you won't be spoiling anything," Sandalphon said.  
"Of course I will! Sword's found, premature war with Hell avoided. Everyone is happy, see! Don't worry, you'll get your chance to burn something like the little pyro you are. Just not now."  
"Why not?" Sandalphon asked. "Does fire make you… uncomfortable?"  
Crowley frowned. "Well..yes. it's not fun."  
Sandalphon inspected his nails, and golden orange flame danced across his fingertips. "You have some experience with fire, don't you?"  
Crowley's face deadpanned as he gestured to the other entity's hand. "I'm not the only one. And can you not do that? Things tend to be more flammable down here."  
Sandalphon smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. "That's the hope."  
"...don't do that, Sandalphon. I have four more days." Crowley returned Monty to the ground before standing. He felt a slight twinge in the back of his head and was doing his best to ignore it, but the flames dancing across Sandalphon's fingers unsettled him in a way no Angel should have been.  
"Lay off the search, Crowley. I'll find the sword. My way."  
"Why? It's practically found already. Besides, Gabriel didn't ask you, you're plan b."  
Sandalphon took a step forward, finger flames brightening.  
"Stop it."  
Sandalphon leered. "What's the matter, Crowley? Afraid you might burn?"  
"No, but this room will." Crowley was backing up instinctively, that twinge in his head growing to an ache. Ever since he'd risen, Crowley had been cautious around holy water and flame. It was better to be safe than sorry in his mind, considering his status, and they offer brought unwanted memories with them anyway. His eyes were trained on the flame and he could swear that he caught a hint of sulfur. "I told you, I will have. The sword."  
"And I told you to stop. Looking." Sandalphon let his eyes trail over the greenery. Delicately, he extended his hand towards a potted fern. It hovered a few inches away.  
"Sandalphon, don't!"  
"You can stop me," he said. "You know the magic words." The finger drifted closer, and a leaf began to blacken.  
"I literally can't, you idiot! Gabriel would kill me himself. Back off!"  
"Let's see just how much Angel you are," Sandalphon hissed. He gripped the fern in his fist, and it burst into flame.  
"Damn it, Sandalphon!" Crowley rushed over to try and put out the flame, and his hands hesitated for a near imperceptible moment. "You cant always burn things to get your way."  
"It's worked so far." Sandalphon walked through the rows, trailing his hands through the leaves. Everything he touched caught alight.  
Crowley whirled around, having successfully put out the plant in front of him, and his eyes widened in horror. That ache became a full blown throb as he rushed Sandalphon.  
He bared his teeth and spread his arms, holy flame licking up to his shoulders.   
The heat and intensity caught Crowley off guard. He stumbled back, hearing the fire beginning to roar behind him. "It can't hurt you," he muttered to himself. "Gabriel won't approve of you starting early, Sandalphon. And you know how he gets when he's angry."  
"Gabriel won't approve of you assaulting a higher-ranking Angel," Sandalphon said. "I was defending myself. I wonder if your essence would survive being thrown from Heaven twice."  
"I didn't touch you! You came here!" The roar of the flame mixed with the deafening sound of blood pumping in his ears. "He knows I'm not that stupid."  
Sandalphon just smiled.  
Crowley ground his teeth, searching for something, anything that could help. He tried snapping his fingers, but the flames didn't respond. The top of the greenhouse was closed in black smoke, obscuring what few stars would be visible one by one. Was that brimstone?  
"You can't do this!" Crowley cried in indignation, squeezing his eyes shut from the pain in his head. He was breathing hard, unable to calm himself. The air stung his lungs, the smell of smoke and spice and the pounding wouldn't stop, never stopped. "You can't!"  
"It's already done," Sandalphone hissed, teeth glittering in the firelight. "Come on, Crowley. Who's going to believe you over me?" He paused, taking in Crowley's distress. "Happy hunting," he said.  
Crowley closed his eyes against a wave of heat. When he looked again, the Angel was gone.  
And everything was fire.  
No matter where he turned, flames licked and crackled as they consumed any green in sight. Shadows of withered plants danced in the light, obscuring the way out of the greenhouse.   
Crowley ran. He picked a direction and sprinted, shielding his eyes from the flame as the heat stole the air from him and his head pounded with every step. Holy fire, while it couldn't hurt Angels, was still uncomfortable in large amounts, and Crowley had been avoiding it for centuries. As he ran a flaming husk cracked and fell towards him, knocking him off balance and sending him flying toward the ground. His temple hit stone with a dull thwack and, for a moment he thought he might vomit. The Angel tried to push himself up, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the ringing, but when he looked up the flames were no longer an orange-gold.  
The were red and black. Cruel and sinister as spilled blood. The crackling was quickly joined by the sound of rushing wind and searing pain. Crowley's gut dropped. He screamed.


	20. Deadwood pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously things have been crazy for everyone right now. We hope you're all staying safe and finding your new, temporary normal.

It stank. The end of a plague always stank, really. Worse, somehow, than when you were in the middle of it. It was a clear afternoon. With the end of the quarantine, People were out on the streets more often. The sound of conversation was becoming a background noise rather than a rarity once more.   
"Mister Crowley!" a man called. "Mister Crowley." Boots splashed through the thick, claylike mud that passed for roads through the rough town.   
Crowley turned to see Seth Bullock, local businessman and rising town star, jogging up to him. A tall, intimidating man, Bullock had broad shoulders, a large nose, and an even larger moustache. Crowley didn't know too much about him, except for a feeling that his heart was in the right place.  
"Mister Bullock," Crowley said over his shoulder, peering from under his wide brimmed, cream colored hat. "Is everything all right?"  
Bullock nodded, tipping his hat as he came to a stop. "Everything's fine. I just wanted to say, sir. I never got to tell you properly. Thank you. Really. Your herbs and poultices saved a lot of people in those tents."  
Smallpox. A nasty epidemic that had come in with some well-to-do travellers. Quarantines had been set up in the streets, for all the good it did. Crowley wasn't sure whether one could really credit his plants, amidst the heaps of small miracles he had deployed.   
"It was the least I could do," Crowley said. "Just helping out."  
"I know folks talked cruel about you, when you first arrived," Bullock said. "With the voice and the clothes. Didn't quite fit the standard. But I reckon you've more than proved yourself. You still lodging next door to the Gem?"  
"I am. Seems like the best place for now."  
Let me buy you dinner tonight. A proper thanks. But, uh, Mister Crowley? Word to the wise?"  
"Mm?"  
"That hotelier of yours is in the pocket of a certain bar and brothel owner. I wouldn't say anything too interesting in his hearing. And if better rooms become available, take them."  
"Noted. "  
Bullock nodded and turned to go.  
Crowley let him, watching him walk off before trudging through the mud towards the inn he currently called home.  
He was nearly there when he caught a whiff of Sulfur in the air.  
He froze, tan boots squelching in the mud yet, miraculously, remaining nearly spotless. It didn't fit. The town wasn't near any hot springs and even if it had been the smell was particularly strong. Still sniffing at the air, he muttered a quiet prayer under his breath, hoping that he didn't have to deal with a Duke today.  
"Oh sweet Satan," said a voice. A voice Crowley hadn't heard for upwards of two hundred years. "You aren't really wearing that here?"  
Crowley turned around.   
He rode a black horse. The sort of horse that didn't seem too out of the ordinary if you weren't paying attention. But the eyes were a few shades too bright. The mane and tail, peering close, seemed more smoke than hair, and the hoofprints it left steamed softly in the cool air.   
Azrafell looked the same, and yet different. He was dressed impeccably, in modern fashion for once. His duster of black leather swept over his steed's haunches like wings. He had a kerchief pulled over his mouth, and wore leather gloves on his hands. But his eyes, pale and eerily blue, were the same. He sat astride the hellhorse as though he were made to ride it, holding the reins in one hand with an easy confidence that took Crowley, admittedly, by surprise.  
"Believe me," he said, plucking at his lapel. "They'd be darker if I could get away with it. What are you doing here? On that? I thought you got pulled away for training or something."  
"Training," Azrafell sneered. "Re-education, more like. Head office felt that I was going rather astray." There was a thickness to the words, an almost-lisp with which Crowley was unfamiliar. Azrafell swung off the horse, landing gracefully. Something glittered amongst his hair, and Crowley saw a golden hoop dangling from one of the Demon's ears.  
Crowley frowned. "Right. Well, welcome back I guess."  
Azrafell tilted his head to the side. "Thank you. What are you doing here, anyway?"  
"Healing the sick, inspiring peace. Nothing out of the ordinary. I'll admit, it's been easier not having to compete with anyone." He looked the demon over from hat to steel tip. "Or sharing the load. Just blessings all day long."  
"Sounds dreadfully dull," Azrafell purred. "Well, we're in the same place now. Back to cancelling each other out?"  
"Cancelling each other out? What about, you know… the Arrangement?" Crowley paused. “Did they find out? Is that why…”   
"Don't be preposterous. They've no idea. It was an entirely separate matter."  
Crowley nodded, feeling a little part of him that he didn't know had opened close off. "Got it. Right. Competition it is for now." He turned on a heel, his coat flowing around his knees as he sauntered away. He waved over his shoulder. "Good luck, Azrafell."  
He felt the Demon's eyes on him until he rounded the corner and left his line of sight.


	21. Deadwood pt. 2

He walked up to Seth Bullock's store just as it closed, hunching his shoulders against the evening air.  
"Mister Crowley," called Sol Star, Bullock's business partner. "Evening." He seemed to be bringing the wares out on display inside for the night.  
"Evening. Is Seth around?"  
Star hefted a bundle of shovels on one shoulder and thought. "I believe Mister Bullock is taking some inventory in the back. You can go on through."  
"Need some help with that?"  
He looked around. "Actually… if you could grab those pickaxes, it'd save me a trip."  
He nodded and threw them over his shoulder with a little less effort than one might expect.  
Star noticed, and looked Crowley over with a raised eyebrow before nodding and beckoning him through the door.  
Crowley followed quietly, careful not to bump into anything.  
"Just drop them by, uh…" he looked around. "By the other prospecting equipment, to your right."  
"All right."  
"Mister Crowley," Bullock said, emerging from the back room. "I wasn't aware we were hiring new employees."  
"Just helping out," Crowley chuckled.  
"Well, the help is much appreciated, sir. Now. I believe I owe you a meal."  
"You did mention that."  
"I'm just about finished here."  
"Go on," said Star. "Its nothing I cant handle."  
Crowley nodded. "Right. Lead the way Mr. Bullock."  
#  
The tavern food was nothing special. Certainly nothing like Parisian or Italian fare. But it was far from inedible, and Crowley did suppose he had been rather spoiled by all the dining Azrafell had treated him to over the centuries.  
"So, Mister Crowley," Bullock said, around a spoonful of thick mashed potatoes. "Tell me about England."  
"Well I cant tell you about all of England. Haven't seen it all."  
"So what have you seen, then?"  
Crowley paused. "Well, the palace is nice. Lovely ground, great workers. They know all the fun spots in the city. London's pretty dreary around this time, and the factories don't help. But it's a decent city." He took a bite if his food. "If you want to see anything pretty, though, you've got to get outside the city. Walk the countryside for a bit."  
Bullock nodded. "Isn't that always the way? You sound fond of it. What made you come all the way out here?"  
"Work, mostly. A change of scenery can be nice."  
"Deadwood's a mighty odd place for a horticulturist. Not that I'm complaining, of course. It's just that most of the folks we get in camp are more occupied with gold and glory than they are anything else."  
"Yeah, not a big gold fan, me."  
Bullock laughed. "Then you're all the stranger."  
Crowley smirked. "What about you? You couldn't have come out here just to open a store?"  
He nodded. "I did. I was a lawman for years before coming out here. Job like that takes its toll after a while. Sol knew some folks with connections in the supply business, so we decided to retire and start a venture together."  
"An ex-lawman coming to a town like this. You're not worried you'll slip back into the old routine?"  
"Hard to be a lawman when there aren't any laws to speak of," bullock said.  
"Yeah, but people like laws. And if they know that someone in town is capable of enforcing them, they may just come to you for help."  
He rolled his eyes. "They'd be hard-pressed to recruit me, sir. Trust me."  
"If you say so."  
"Rule of law only goes so far," Bullock said. He looked down at his food, and tiredness crept into his voice. "After a while, the laws are only good for keeping in line those who want to be kept."  
"It's better than nothing," Crowley said. "Gives most people a sense of security, even if it's false. And you need good people in positions of lawful power to counteract the shit ones. It's hard and tiring, but somebody's gotta do it. Might as well be someone who's decent at it."  
"Are you trying to tell me something, son?" Bullock asked wryly.  
"Just making conversation."  
"Deep conversation," Bullock said. "... have you thought about getting some new clothes? As uh… stylish as that might be in the city, you're a long way from that life now."  
Crowley laughed and set his hat aside. "I have. Let's just say this is a...personal obligation. Besides, it pays to stand out sometimes."  
"Depends on why you want to stand out, I guess," Bullock said.  
"And who knows? I may go back one day. I've got all the time in the world."  
"Wish I had that luxury," Bullock said. "For a man of such learning, you seem a very free spirit."  
"Well, I've had plenty of second chances," Crowley said. "No use in wasting them by not enjoying my time here."  
"Sounds like that might be a good story or two."  
"You have no idea," Crowley chuckled  
"I don't suppose you feel like regaling me."  
"That wouldn't be fun. Takes away half the mystery."  
Bullock quirked one eyebrow. "And you like mystery?"  
"Yes! Someone who tells all their secrets is just begging for attention."  
"Well… can't say I disagree with you there. Though you might say the same about a man seeking to preserve his enigma at the expense of conversation." He smiled crookedly.  
"Point taken. What do you want to know then, Mr. Bullock? You seem like a trustworthy man."  
"I do my best." He paused and thought. "That man, on the black horse. I turned when he called out to you. Seems to hail from the same lands you do. What's the history there?"  
"Are you really asking me if I know the only other Englishman in town? It's an entire country, Mr. Bullock, we don't all know each other."  
"He spoke with a degree of familiarity I thought unbecoming of a complete stranger. And you replied in kind. I wasn't eavesdropping," he said, forestalling Crowley's objection with a raised hand. "You two weren't exactly quiet."  
"...that's fair. I know him, he's...an old business partner, of sorts."  
Bullock nodded. "You don't run together anymore?"  
"I dont know. Hadn't heard from him in a while. Family stuff. I was just surprised to see him here...how...how much of that conversation did you hear?"  
"Enough to know that your business, whatever it was, must have been very strange indeed."  
"That's one way to put it," Crowley muttered, finishing off his drink.  
"You seem to be holding up your end well enough, though. What with the peace and healing and whatnot you have been more than amply providing."  
"Thanks."  
"No, thank you. Really. But this new fellow. Do you think he'll cause any problems?"  
Crowley waved a hand. "He shouldn't really. And if he does I'll set him straight. Don't worry about it."  
"You're sure?"  
"Of course! It's handled."  
"All right. I'll take your word on it."  
"Gentlemen!" A new voice said. Crowley turned to find a portly Gentleman with a tintype camera behind him. "Photo for the Pioneer? An homage to the medical heroes that saved our little camp from the plague!"  
The Black Hills Pioneer was a local paper, read widely among the minority of Deadwood who actually knew their letters.  
"I suppose," Crowley said, glancing over at Seth.  
He shrugged. "Might as well. Embrace our future, and all. Technology shall soon surpass our imaginations."  
"If you wouldn't mind standing, Gentlemen. It'll frame you better that way."  
Crowley scooped up his hat as he stood, posting himself against the table.  
Seth came around the table to stand beside him, and murmured, "I'm not half as artful in my presentation as you, sir."  
"Don't have to be. Just be comfortable."  
"Very well." He crossed his arms over his chest.  
The portly gentleman bent over to peer through the camera lens. "Get ready, sirs, ready… Now!"  
There was a flash, and he straightened back up. "Very good, that will look lovely. Thank you, gentlemen, thank you!"  
Crowley chuckled "Any time."  
Bullock tipped his hat. As the photographer packed up his equipment and left, he sat back down. He chuckled softly and shook his head.  
"He seemed nice."  
"He is," Bullock said. "He's very… enthusiastic."  
"Someone should be."  
"Too right." He lifted his mug of watery ale. "To the enthusiasts."  
Crowley raised his as well. "To the enthusiasts."  
#  
Crowley enjoyed sleeping. It was one of the aspects of life that the humans had got dead on. But tonight, he couldn't seem to close his eyes.  
The camp was quiet. Late night was slowly becoming early morning as Crowley wandered the muddy streets. Stars dusted the sky, and the moon turned everything to silver. Without horses, carts, and pedestrians churning the clay-like soil, the air was clear, smelling faintly of pine.  
One of the only places with any glow from within was the Gem Saloon. The long hours made it a choice location for prospectors who left early in the mornings for the mountains, not returning until late.  
A figure in a black leather coat stepped out of the saloon and into the street. The light from behind him splashed his shadow across the ground, deep and distended by the angle of illumination.  
Crowley paused and watched them as they strode from the building. They seemed intent enough, although at this time it night it was unlikely for people to be leaving without stumbling over drunken limbs.  
The figure stopped in the middle of the street and turned, staring back up at the Gem. He wore a black bandanna over his mouth and a wide-brimmed fedora hat.  
Crowley's eyes rolled as he sauntered over. "What's wrong, Azrafell?" He crooned. "Out of practice?"  
"Oh," Azrafell said. He looked over out of the corner of one glacial eye. "Crowley. No, no. I'm just… thinking."  
"About what?"  
"Oh, you know," he said, voice absent. "Plotting, machinations and the like. Standard Demonic fare."  
"Mm. And you usually do your plotting in the middle of the road?"  
"Air's a bit close in there," he murmured, that odd slur to his voice coming through again. He glanced back at Crowley. "What about you?"  
"Just having a nightly stroll."  
"Ah."  
Crowley looked back at the Gem. "Is this where you're holed up?"  
"Mm. I've been given an assignment." What little Crowley could see of Azrafell's face looked nonplussed. "Like some low-level imp. Turns out, Hell is rather keen on this place."  
"I can see why. What's the assignment?"  
"Vague," Azrafell sighed. "Stick close, push Hellish agendas. But they were very clear that it was to be here. At this place."  
"Well that's unfortunate."  
"I'm hardly new to this!" Azrafell whined, some of his smooth coldness replaced by momentary petulance. "I've been here, on Earth, since the Beginning. I'm perfectly capable of self-management."  
Crowley glanced over at the demon. "Oh, I'm sure you are. Don’t think too much of it, they're probably doing it for everyone."  
"Yes… yes, you're probably right." Azrafell clasped his hands behind his back, seeming to remember himself. "Rather."  
"How long are you here?"  
"Until they move me along, I suppose," the Demon said bitterly. "You?"  
"Same here. Probably could have left sooner if you hadn't shown up."  
"Terribly sorry to inconvenience you."  
"Sure you are," Crowley drawled.  
Azrafell glanced at him, but said nothing.  
A silence fell between them for another moment, neither of them really sure what else to say. It was a weighted sort of quiet, and Crowley couldn't tell if it was from a mutual mistrust or something else entirely. "Well," he said, tipping his hat to Azrafell as he started off towards his hotel. "Guess I should head inside. I would lay off the alcohol, you're starting to slur a bit."  
One of Azrafell's hands jerked up towards the bandana. Crowley could feel the Demon's eyes boring into the back of his head as he walked away.


	22. Deadwood pt. 3

Crowley was revelling in the cool morning air on the balcony of his hotel room. All was quiet, the town not quite beginning to stir. The goldmen had left while it was still dark, and the rest of the town would rise with the sun, but this gray in-between time was empty. Crowley let his eyes roam over the view, lingering on a fine carriage parked below him.  
They had arrived late at night three days before, the rich man, his wife, and their daughter. It had caused quite a stir. People hoped wealth might bring some structure with it. The novelty of the camp's lawlessness had begun to wear thin.  
Boots squelched through the mud, and Crowley looked up. Seth Bullock strode down the street alongside a boy of no more than fourteen, looking less than pleased.  
"Why so glum?" he called.  
Bullock stopped and peered up at him. "I've been summoned," he called, clapping the boy on the shoulder. "To the Gem Saloon. I am not hopeful that it will be a pleasant exchange."  
"Ah. Doesn't Swearengen hate you or something?"  
"That's the word on the street. I've been a bit of a thorn in his side," Bullock drawled.  
"So why would he want to meet you?"  
"That's a question you'd have to ask him yourself," Bullock said. He paused. "Do you… want to?"  
"You were called, not me."  
"Yes, that's true. You're under no obligation, of course. But you're one of the few people in camp Swearengen wouldn't dare kick out of his place. And I… I could use someone watching my back."  
Crowley paused and looked over Bullock slowly before pushing himself up with a grunt. "All right," he said, coat hooked on one finger and tossed over his shoulder. "But I'll need a drink."  
#  
The Gem Variety Theater was a saloon, gambling den, and brothel owned and managed by Al Swearengen. It was a tall, square building, and loomed over the rest of Deadwood like a parody of the civilized society its owner had come so far to escape. Sometimes a band would play inside, but today it was silent in seeming anticipation of the meeting to come.   
Bullock and Crowley stepped through the door. The only patron was hunched at the bar. A portly man with an impressive moustache wiped down tables. He wore clothes that had once been fine, with short, greased black hair and eyes that, as they regarded the newcomers, seemed to be sizing them up like a butcher sizes a carcass.   
"Bullock," he called, and the greeting was genial enough, even though the face was nothing of the sort. "Thank you for coming. Who's this?"  
"Crowley," the angel said with a jerk of his chin.   
"Crowley, eh? The Smallpox Miracle Man. Well, I am honored. What brings you to my humble establishment?"  
"Alcohol, mostly. And a little...witnessing."  
"I'm offended that you would imply Mister Bullock and I have anything to discuss that isn't strictly above board." Swearengen smiled. He had bad teeth. "Go on and sit at the bar. Someone will be over to assist you." He winked. "And since you're some kind of miracle worker, we'll say it's on the house."  
"Well, thank you."  
He nodded, the smile fixed enough to be insincere. "Well, go on."  
"I'll be fine for now, Mister Crowley," Bullock said. "Thank you."  
Crowley nodded and sauntered over to take a seat.  
The other man at the bar wasn't wearing his black coat or hat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His claws tapped the bar as he stared into space, and his bandana was still fixed in place. He glanced at Crowley as he sat.  
“well you look miserable,” Crowley said as he sank into a stool. he laid his coat over his thigh, facing Azrafell, and leaned an elbow on the bar.  
"I'm always miserable," Azrafell muttered. "It's my prerogative. What are you doing here?"  
"Drinking, hopefully." Crowley took a look around the establishment with a small frown.   
It was quiet, besides the hushed conversation from the two men cross the room, but something about the quiet unsettled him. It was as if the space was devoid of something other than sound. The emptiness coated everything like a film of spilled beer, uncomfortable and dirty and bad. It took a moment for Crowley to pinpoint why he was so unsettled. he couldn't find the bright side. Most places had flashes of negative and positive energy, as was the nature of life. Good and bad, up and down. Not here. The closest thing Crowley could feel to love or genuine appreciation was faint and distorted, like someone took the emotions and dunked them in a vat of acid. They were hollow. Weak. It left a pit in his stomach.  
"You all right, Crowley?" Azrafell asked. There was a glass in front of him, a tumbler of scotch, but he didn't seem interested in it.  
"I'm great. You going to drink that?"  
Azrafell slid it over to him without a word.  
Crowley nodded and finished it with one quick motion.  
Azrafell's pale eyes scanned the bar, passing over the labels of the various liquors without taking any of them in.  
"What about you? You're awfully quiet."  
"I'm all right. Just… doing my job."  
"You know it's just going to be canceled out."  
"I do."  
"All right then."  
Azrafell looked over at Crowley. "... I'm being rude, aren't I? Even for me."  
Crowley shrugged. "Happens sometimes."  
"Quite." Despite his acknowledgement of his monosyllables, Azrafell didn't seem to want to be any more talkative. But Crowley noticed that since he had sat beside Azrafell, the Demon's shoulders had gotten markedly less rigid.   
Crowley turned to face the rest of the bar, sinking against it and letting his head fall back. "Wake me up when a bartender shows up."  
Azrafell moved his head in a way that may have been a nod.   
Bullock and Swearengen talked in low tones a few tables away, but Crowley couldn't make out the words. A few minutes passed before Azrafell elbowed him mutely.  
Crowley peered up, not shifting his position. "Hey."  
"What are you drinkin'?" a man drawled. Crowley glanced over his shoulder. He had a scraggly beard, lank hair, and didn't look particularly well-bathed. But he wore an apron and had a rag over one shoulder.   
"Whatever's the strongest."  
The man shrugged and turned to pull a glass and a bottle from their shelves.   
"The alcohol helps, I've found." Azrafell said.  
"With work?"  
"With…" the Demon waved a hand lazily around at their surroundings. "With all of it." Again, Crowley picked up a slight oddness to his speech. The fricatives and plosives came out… thick.  
Crowley frowned. "Then why'd you give me your drink?"  
"You looked like you needed it."  
"Mm...why the bandana?"  
Azrafell blinked. The abupt subject change had apparently caught him off-guard. "What? It's stylish. Lots of people have them."  
"Since when have you kept up with current trends?"  
"Since my superiors took it upon themselves to remind me of proper demonic conduct," he said, eyes going briefly hard.  
'...that's fair."  
He glanced back over at crowley and didn't speak.  
Crowley went quiet again, nodding to the bartender as his drink was brought over. He sipped this one, and with a sigh of content he leaned back onto the bar to peer lazily at Swearengen and Bullock. Despite everything he felt pretty relaxed. His hat sat beside him, his long braid draped over the bar and his foot tapped to a random tune that had taken up residence in his head. maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the company, but it felt a little more normal now than it had for a couple hundred years.  
Behind him, Bullock made a sound that was half disgust, half grudging acceptance. "You're a cretin," he said.  
"Don't look so down," Swearengen replied, satisfied. "This way, everybody wins."  
"Including you," Bullock muttered.   
"Oh, of course," Swearengen said. "Just like always."  
A small noise came from Azrafell's throat, too low for anyone but Crowley to hear.   
"Come with me. I'll take you to him myself," Swearingen said, rising. Seth stood too. "Just make sure you let him know it was old Al who gave you what you needed to do the job."  
"I think that's my cue," Crowley said, sliding his drink over to Azrafell.  
The Demon's hand shot out and took Crowley by the arm, claws tight around his skinny bicep. "Wait, he said. "Just a moment." He paused. "Please."  
Crowley looked down at his arm, then up at Azrafell with a quirked eyebrow. "You know, usually our competition isn't so forceful"  
Azrafell's jaw worked, but he let go. "You've never been in here before, have you?" He asked in a low voice, looking back at the bar.  
"No. Why would I?"  
"Quite. Well. Ah. He - Swearengen - keeps - that is to say, he employs - ah. There are girls here. Young women. He treats them poorly. Their clients treat them worse. And they need medical attention, and… I'm not sure really. Hope? Maybe? And that's the one thing I am unequipped to give them. For obvious reasons. And I don't think they like me anyway. And I don't think my side would like it if I tried. But if you're, ah… ever around, their quarters are through the rightmost door at the end of the back hall." It was more than he'd said since before he had ridden into town on that terrible horse. The sentences were short and jerky, but something about their rambling tone cast Crowley's mind far back. To a garden.  
He bit back the automatic urge to quip about it being a brothel and of course there were women here, and looked Azrafell over. "Well. What does he charge?"  
Azrafell blinked. "Ten dollars."  
"All right, good to know."  
Azrafell nodded. As Crowley stood to walk after Bullock and Swearengen, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Azrafell pull his bandana down and knock out the drink in one big swig. He replaced the cloth over his nose and set the glass back down on the bar, pale eyes fixed on the bottles.  
#  
There was a tense sort of energy between Swearengen and Bullock as Crowley caught up.  
"You're new friend's a real tagalong," Swearengen said.  
"He ought to be, since I asked him to," Bullock replied. "Did you catch any of the conversation, Mister Crowley?"  
"Not really. Just heard you call him a Cretin."  
Swearengen didn't react, but Bullock's moustache twitched mirthfully. "There's a new man in town. Rich fella, brought his family."  
"I saw them."  
"His little girl's been snatched by a group of men what rode out of town with her. The gentleman has offered a reward for who finds her."  
"Great. Why does that involve him?" Crowley Asked, jerking a thumb at Swearengen.  
"Cause i'm giving you the cash and the supplies you need for a manhunt," Swearengen said. "  
"For a cut of the reward, of course," bullock added.  
Swearengen shrugged. "Maybe so."  
"So you're leaving soon?"  
"As soon as possible," Bullock said. "You're welcome to join, if you think you'll be a help."  
"I…" Crowley paused, his thought drifting back to his conversation with azrafell. "I'm...not much good on the road. not my thing. But I can keep an eye out here, help out with the store while you're gone."  
Bullock nodded. "'Course. I know Sol'd appreciate it."  
"Besides, you need a pox free town to return to," Crowley said with a smirk. "Just don't die."  
"I shall do my utmost," Bullock said. "See you around, Mister Crowley."  
Crowley tipped his hat in response.


	23. Deadwood pt. 4

Night was falling in Deadwood. The Gem Band was playing a bawdy tune from the balcony of their saloon, drawing passers-by to the revels within.  
Crowley didnt want to go in, he wasn't particularly fond of brothels. They stank and were generally full of idiot drunken humans who didnt know their ass from a teakettle. But Azrafell had asked, and it wasn't like the problem was something Crowley could just ignore. So he sauntered in, hands shoved in his pockets and the brim of his hat low.  
It was just as raucous inside as the band had promised from its music. A man in a crooked stovepipe hat wasn't so much playing the pianoforte in the corner as he was accosting it, and the harsh lively music meant that patrons had to shout to make themselves heard. The multitude of bodies and the plethora of lamps and lit candles meant that the place was hot.  
Crowley had half expected to find Azrafell hunched and miserable at the bar again, but the more he thought about it, actually seeing the Demon in this drunken crush would have been odder than not.  
Why was that? Crowley looked around the Saloon. Demons were supposed to revel in sin, bur here at the Gem, Azrafell seemed to be doing anything but.  
He tried not to think too hard about it.  
Shoulders hunched against the crowd, Crowley wove his way through to the bar and inserted himself in a stool.  
"Mister Crowley," Al Swearengen called, coming around the corner of the bar. He tied an apron around his waist. "I have to admit, sir, I did not expect to see you back here so soon."  
"Feeling's mutual."  
"What are you drinking?" Swearengen asked.  
"Scotch, if you have it."  
"A man of fine taste!" Swearengen boomed. He turned to the bar and poured a glass. He slid it across the bar to Crowley. "Here you go, you Limey bastard. How does our fair camp treat you?"  
"It's dull enough," Crowley chuckled dryly. "But it does it's job."  
"A less than glowing review," Swearengen said, though he hardly looked put out. "Let's see if my little establishment can remedy that for you."  
"That's exactly why I came to talk to you," Crowley purred as he sipped. "I hear you employ some of the best entertainment in town."  
Swearengen paused, and a smile curled up one side of his mouth. "What are you after, son?"  
Crowley rested an arm on the bar and leaned in so he didnt have to yell. "Anything really, so long they aren't alone. Figure I have a trail run for the night before I decide to come back again."  
"Anything, eh?" Swearengen asked, leaning in. His breath matched his teeth. "And do you have any greenbacks backing up that little request?"  
"You think I don't?" Crowley said, grinning so he could wrinkle his nose without it seeming completely out of place. "What's your price?"  
"Ten a night for the vanilla stuff. You want to get weird with any of them, it's fifteen. Liabilities, you understand."  
Crowley sucked his teeth and sat back to drink. "You're expensive, Al." He grinned and held out a waffle of Bills between two fingers. "I'll take three."  
Swearengen's eyes lit up. He took the money from Crowley and tucked it away in a pocket. "For cash like that, sir, you can take your damn pick."  
"Great. If they're good, you can expect more later. So. Where do I go?"  
"Down the hall at the back, last door on your right." Swearengen clapped a powerful hand on Crowley's shoulder. "Happy hunting."  
"Right. Thanks." Crowley finished off his drink and slid the empty glass over as he stood.  
"Go on, go on. The girls will take you to an open room." Swearengen took the glass and headed down the bar to talk to the other patrons.  
Crowley slunk upstairs, the smirk fading but the wrinkled nose remaining. He felt dirty giving Swearegen money for this, even if it was under false pretenses, but he didnt see any other way to go about it discretely.  
Last door on the right. There were voices chatting away behind it, but when he knocked, they went quiet.  
"May I come in?" Crowley called, feeling more awkward by the moment. "I, uh...I paid downstairs."  
The door creaked open. A pale girl, no older than sixteen, looked up at him. She was dressed in lacy negligee that revealed far too much for someone so young.   
Some of the women in the room were older, though only a very few might have been over thirty. They draped over couches and chairs, or sat in front of mirrors doing makeup. They were all dressed in ways that left little to the imagination. They were perfectly demure, perfectly sultry… and utterly devoid of joy.  
His breath caught momentarily and he sighed. "Look, this is going to sound….really strange I know. But I...paid...for….hell, you all hate this, right?"  
"No, sir," one of the oldest said, face utterly deadpan. "Mister Swearengen feeds us and lodges us, and we are well acquainted with the finest gentlemen in camp. What better prospects would we have?"  
"Listen, you can trust me. I heard he wasn't treating you well and...I can help. Please, just...hear me out."  
The girl closed the door behind Crowley as he stepped inside. The women in the room were silent. Waiting.  
They looked as empty as the room felt, so many different faces bearing the same expression. He took off his hat so that they could see his face. "So...look. Swearengen's a shithead. That much I know. Makes it worse that I'm not really a big fan of brothels, but I...well my point is I'm sure conditions are less than ideal. Between you and me?"  
The woman who had spoken up shrugged and nodded.  
"Okay. Who here is the worst off? Injuries, illnesses? Those are easy fixes."  
Tentatively, one of the women at the back raised her hand. She had a black eye, and sores at the corners of her mouth.  
Crowley looked over with what he hoped was a comforting expression. "can I see?"  
The woman looked at the more talkative one, who in turn looked at Crowley as though trying to fathom his depths. Eventually, she jerked her head towards him. "Go on, Tilda. He won't hurt you."  
Tilda came out of the back of the group. She held her head high and her back straight, but she couldn't stop the slight tremor in her hands.  
"It's all right," Crowley assured her, setting his hat aside as she approached. "I won't hurt you, I swear. This may feel a little strange." Tentatively he raised a hand, his blood boiling with untargeted anger as she flinched, and brushed his fingers over the top of her brow and the corners of her mouth. He tried to add just a little extra love as he watched the bruises and sores fade. He smirked. "See? Wasn't so bad, was it?"  
She frowned, but as her eyes met his, she shook her head. "No," she whispered.  
"Good. Anyone else? I've got a limited amount of time, but I'll do what I can."  
As Tilda turned back around to the rest of the women, hands began to rise.   
Crowley worked quickly, with low, muttered requests for consent with each new girl. He tried not to let the seething in his stomach reach his eyes.  
He had been treated poorly before, on the occasions he had been a woman. He had seen the way human men had treated their other halves.   
But this.   
This was something else.   
Eventually, Crowley stepped back. He looked around at the women, cleaner, fresher faced, cheeks pinker with a bit of health that had been absent before. He realized the only one he hadn't seen to was the older lady, in a wingback chair. The group's apparent unofficial leader. She hadn't even said her name.  
"Dont need anything, Miss…?"  
"I'm fine," she said. "Don't got nothing what can be helped."  
"You'd be surprised," he said, golden eyes looking at her curiously.  
She hesitated, looking around at the other girls, who all looked back at her. "Fine." She leaned over the side of her chair and retrieved a cane. She used it to push herself out of the chair and make her way over to Crowley, limping with such a heaviness and a rhythm that Crowley knew in his gut each step must have been an agony. She hoisted up her substantial skirts to reveal a leg that was so twisted by old injury that it had healed in almost the opposite direction it was supposed to face. There was bending and bowing where there shouldn't have been any, and the knee was locked and straight. "Surprise me."  
This time Crowley couldn't stop the rage from spilling over into his gaze. "...did he do this?"  
"Not the man himself, sir, but near enough," the woman said. Her own eyes burned up at him from beneath her artfully arranged, deep black hair. "He certainly pushed for no recrimination against the man who did. And he certainly hid me from passing medical men, so as not to tarnish his reputation. He is certainly complicit, sir."  
Crowley shut his eyes and took a long deep breath. "Help her sit please," he said to the room.  
Two girls, Tilda and a woman barely in her twenties named Ariel, helped her back to her chair. Crowley came and knelt in front of her.  
"All right. This...I'm going to be honest with you, it's going to sound pretty grisly. But it shouldn't hurt. Do you trust me?"  
One eyebrow rose. "No," she said. "But do what you will."  
He nodded. "That's fair. Right, if you're queasy, I suggest closing your eyes." He took a deep breath, let his flutter closed and reached a hand out to the woman's leg.  
She hissed in a breath as the fingers made contact with her skin. Then, she stopped breathing altogether as things began to shift. It was a lot, reshaping this much bone. The injury was old enough that he couldn't simply wave at it and make it disappear. He took ahold of her ankle and guided it back around to the front, showing the bones where to go. He fixed the calf, and the thigh, and re-aligned the hip. He uncurled the foot from where it had twisted, trying to support her from such an unnatural position.   
It was not an easy miracle.   
But when he was finished, her leg was whole once more and she was looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite parse.  
"There," he grunted as he stood. "That ought to be enough. Probably spent too much time up here...shit. ah well."  
"What next, then?" The woman asked.  
"Well, next is that I," he pulled a face. "Paid for three this evening. but this isn't really my thing. so I was thinking the youngest three come with me, rest in the empty room for the night. I tell Swearngten all went well, promise to come back. I'm not made of money, but I can give three of you a night's break pretty often. Who gets it after tonight would be up to you." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I know it's not much, but it's what I've got for now. Unfortunately, I can't help more directly."  
"Thank you. What are you?" The woman asked. "The girls won't ask. But I have no such reservations, sir."  
He smiled. "Just call me divine intervention."  
"And what do you want?" She asked.  
"Just to help really. It's kind of my job." He held out a hand. "Name's Crowley."  
The woman looked at it. "What does this cost?"  
"Absolutely nothing." He put as much sincerity and feeling as he could into the words, hoping that as long as he was here he could make the lives of these women just a little bit brighter.  
"Sir. Perhaps you are not aware, but you are in Deadwood. We may have no laws to speak of, but everything has a price. And that healing touch of yours is costly. Don't think me or my girls ungrateful, but I suggest you put that away and do not use it within the confines of this camp anymore."  
Crowley held up his hands. "It's just for emergencies. I've been around a while, I know how things work."  
"If you did, you wouldn't have come at all." She paused. "My name is Lilith. Lilith Device."  
"Lilith. Interesting name. Good to meet you. Now, I believe three of you have a room to yourselves?"


	24. Deadwood pt. 5

Time went by in much of the same way after that. During the day Crowley helped at the store while Bullock was away and occasionally have a brief conversation with Azrafell. As many nights as he could, he'd go to the Gem and pay for a few of the girls to take a night off. He came so often now that he swore Swearegen had a room set aside for him. It made his skin crawl, but at least he was doing a little good.  
Azrafell was at the bar tonight. It was unusual to see him downstairs during peak hours… but looking around, Crowley realized that if this was the peak, then it had been a bad day for business. Only one of the gambling tables was completely full. Several were completely empty. And even the tinkling of the pianoforte felt subdued. Crowley couldn't decide if the Demon had come down because the place was so barren, or if it was the other way around.  
"You sure liven the place up," Crowley said as he slid in next to the demon.  
Azrafell made a sound that might have been a laugh, beneath his bandana. "That's what I'm supposed to be doing, you know." He had a drink in front of him, but once again, it looked untouched.  
"No offense, but you're doing a shit job."  
"I'm aware."  
Crowley snorted and waved a bartender over.  
"Scotch man, right?" The bartender said, before he'd even come to a stop in front of Crowley.  
"That's right."  
He pivoted on a heel and walked away.   
"Never thought you'd become a regular here," Azrafell said.  
"Neither would I," Crowley muttered. "But I have to be to help them. Wish i could make the money i give him disappear."  
Azrafell nodded.  
"Drinking anything?"  
"In theory," he murmured, tapping his glass with a claw.  
"Ah. Nevermind then"  
"Quite."  
Crowley nodded at the bartender and paid for his drink. He sipped quietly, not really paying attention to his surroundings. The brooding energy to his left, however, made it difficult to lose himself in his drink. "You okay, Azrafell?"  
Azrafell looked over at him. "What?"  
“you've been more dark and broody than I remember. seems like you're having a riugh time.”  
He blinked. "... A rough ti - I'm a Demon, Crowley, all my times are rough." Though the words were hard, he sounded more surprised than upset.  
"Just saying. If you want to talk, now's the time to do it. We might be the only two people in the world who know what the other is going through." Crowley glanced over at him and sipped. "I won't tell."  
Azrafell was so silent Crowley nearly left him to it, but then he said, "There's no joy in this place."  
"That much I know," Crowley said with a faint snarl. "It's disgusting."  
Azrafell nodded.  
"If it makes you feel any better, this place will probably come down in some way or another. They never stick, really, when they're run this way."  
"One can only hope," Azrafell said, the words coming out closer to a growl.  
Crowley quirked an eyebrow at him, mildly surprised on multiple accounts. "Is that it then? Just the fact that this seedy bar is an ethical pit?"  
Azrafell paused. "What else would it be?"  
"How should I know? I Can't read your mind, Zira."  
Azrafell was silent again. "How… how would you feel about… making things like they were again?" He asked.  
"What do you mean?"  
"You know. The… Arrangement."  
"I thought you said you wanted the competition."  
"Thought I did. Thought… I don't know, I suppose I thought I was supposed to." He was slurring again, and Crowley wondered how much the Demon had had to drink before he arrived.  
"I mean, I wouldn't mind it. I just figured you...changed."  
Azrafell looked over at him. "Changed?"  
"Well yeah! Look at you!" He waved a vague hand at Azrafell. "First time I've seen you in ages, and you look like you've got all your fiendish ways in check. I was a little skeptical."  
He looked down at himself. "For a group that chooses to model themselves after vermin, Hell is rather big on appearances."  
"I don't think it's specific to Hell," Crowley muttered.  
Azrafell chuckled bleakly. "Maybe so."  
Crowley smirked and finished his drink.   
"I don't even like horses," Azrafell whined softly.  
"Yeah, they're just one big, walking design flaw. Hard on the buttocks."  
"Mm," Azrafell agreed. "I was… pleased," he added. "To see you the other week."  
"Really?" Crowley asked with a grin.   
He looked over at the Angel and scowled. "Oh, don't make a thing of it. It was just nice to see a familiar face, is all."  
"Who's making a thing? I'm not."  
Azrafell looked at Crowley severely. "I'm sure."  
Crowley just winked.  
It was hard to tell under the bandana, but Crowley could have sworn the Demon was smiling.  
A silence fell between them, then. And despite Crowley’s discomfort and Azrafell’s melancholy, something about it felt… familiar. Comfortable.   
Azrafell ran his finger around the rim of the glass.  
From upstairs, there was a clatter, a peculiar noise that put Crowley in mind of furniture being thrown into a wall. The door to Al’s quarters slammed open, and Tilda stumbled out onto the interior balcony.   
Al Swearengen followed her with a bottle in one hand, and a cloth-wrapped brick in the other. “One job!” he roared. The saloon fell silent. Azrafell didn’t look up from his drink. “I gave you one damned job!”  
Tilda whimpered.   
“‘Go get the shipment of dope for me, Tilda, there's a good girl,’” he hissed. “Bring it back quick, I said. Do you know what this is?” He waved the brick menacingly.  
All the other patrons except Azrafell and Crowley had already fled, and in the silence, the swinging door creaked rhythmically as it went back and forth.   
“Do you know what this is?” Al all but screamed. His face was red, turning purple.  
Slowly, Tilda shook her head.   
Al threw the brick at her. It exploded on the banister next to hr, enveloping her in a yellow cloud. “Sawdust. It’s goddamned fuckin’ sawdust.”  
Tilda flinched.  
Al examined the bottle in his hand, then smashed it against the wall. He leaned close and held the bottle to her face. “You tell me right now which one of those Chinese cocksuckers you went to, right now, and I won’t throw you out on the street.”  
Tilda was crying now, her shoulders shaking. “The—the grocer. Li Wei.”  
Swearingen jerked the jagged edge of the bottle, and Tilda whimpered. He spat at her. “Whore. Don’t think I’m finished with you.”  
Azrafell’s was holding his glass in a shaking hand. Abruptly, it shattered, sending shards flying and turning Swearengen’s attention to him and Crowley.   
“What he fuck are you looking at?” he snarled. He clattered down the stairs and out the door.   
Azrafell looked over at Crowley.  
And followed him.  
Just as quickly, Crowley rushed up the balcony and knelt next to Tilda. "Are you all right?"  
Blood flowed from between the fingers she pressed to her cheek, but she nodded.  
"Here," he said, brushing his fingers over her cheek, sealing the cuts.  
She nodded and swiped at her tear-stained cheeks.  
"Does this happen often?"  
“Not like this so much,” she said softly. “He shouts, and he’s not shy with his fists, sir, but his dope is a different matter than most. It’s real expensive, sir, and he makes a lot of money on selling it.”  
Crowley shook his head and helped her to her feet. "Come on, let's get you back to the room."  
She put her arm through his. “Thank you, sir.”  
"Of course."  
When they reached the door, Tilda opened it. Lilith device stood in the center of the room, arms around one of the younger girls. “I heard shouting,” she said. “Everyone all right?”  
"I think so," Crowley said.   
Tilda nodded. “Mister Crowley patched me up.”  
Lilith’s expression grew thunderous. “What needed patching?”  
“A little cut,” Tilda said. “It’s nothing.”  
"I can calm him down," Crowley assured her. "Just lay low for now."  
Lilith nodded and held out a hand. Tilda let go of crowley and took it. Lilith looked her over, and then back up at him. “Thank you, sir.”  
"Of course."  
Tilda nodded her agreement, squeezing Lilith’s hand.  
Crowley turned and made his way downstairs, seething with every step.  
The night air was cool and crisp, and the inhabitants of Deadwood seemed unruffled. But Crowley couldn’t help but notice a tension in the air.  
He looked around but he couldn't see Swearegen or Azrafell anywhere immediately around him. So he walked, partially to look for them and partially to just get some air.  
He came to the edges of town, looking out at the untamed wilds beyond the limits of camp. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he spotted a man wandering haphazardly away. A broken bottle dangled loosely from one hand.  
Crowley's blood boiled and he jogged to catch up with the man. "Swearengen!" He called. "Where are you going, you cant just pick a fight and leave!"  
Swearengen’s footsteps faltered a bit, but he didn’t stop.  
Crowley frowned, reaching a hand out and spinning the man around to face him. "Al, where are you…"  
Swearengen’s eyes were wide and vacant, mouth hanging slack. His face was pale, like the blood had all drained away. His forehead was dewey with a cold sweat.  
Crowley knew exactly what this was.   
"...shit," he growled, snapping his fingers. Swearengen froze as Crowley looked back towards the town, trying to see where the demon could have gone. "Shit! All right, uh...you're going to forget this. When you wake up, you won't remember what you've just seen...or Tilda's cockup, for that matter." He wrestled the broken bottle from Al's hands and chucked it into the darkness. "Look, just, stay...well you can't move anyway...nevermind." as he turned to run back towards the Gem he snapped, leaving Swearegen alone in the dark.  
Back in town, the air was heavy and warm. People milled in the streets nervously, unsure of just what was wrong but knowing that something was deeply amiss.   
Until, froma block or two away, the cry of “Fire! Fire!” began to ring through the streets.  
It was exactly what Crowley hadn't want to hear. He swore under his breath and ran towards the call, that little voice in the back of his head trying to hold him back.  
The Gem Variety Theater was in flames. Tongues of orange and red and yellow licked at the black sky, belching smoke in fat, uneven columns.  
Crowley hissed and raised a hand against the heat, shielding his eyes from the flame. He didn't hear any screams, which could have been a good sign. It could've also be a very bad sign though. His breath caught in his throat as he Search for any signs of life in the flame, but he saw none . He had to be sure though . Inhaling deeply, taking in the scent of burning wood and smoke, he steeled himself to enter the saloon.  
He didn’t make it three steps before a clawed hand grabbed his arm, gripping it like a vise. “Don’t go a step further, Angel!” Azrafell shouted over the roar of the flames. Around them, people were running to and fro in a panic. One buffeted Crowley’s shoulder as he ran past.  
"There could still be people in there!" He shouted back, trying to tug his arm free   
“There really couldn’t,” Azrafell said.  
"And why is that?"  
Azrafell looked at him flatly. “Because there was no one in there to begin with. IT’s hellfire, Crowley, get back. A stray spark would immolate you.”  
Crowley froze and looked down at the demon. "You what?!" Something clicked in the back of his mind as he looked between Azrafell and the flame. He stumbled back, heart in his throat. "Why? I mean, it was a shithole, but this? Isn't this against everything you're here for?"  
“I couldn’t bear it!” Azrafell snapped. “I couldn’t bear it a second more. You couldn’t feel lit like I could. The weight of that place, bending me over. Trust me, Angel, Hell has nothing on humanity.”  
Crowley frowned, confused and at an utter loss for words. "You...you didn't…"  
“What? Didn’t tell you? How could I? Angels don’t loathe, it simply isn’t in your nature.” As Azrafell’s projection of control slipped, his words thickened and slurred once more. “There’s nothing I could have said that would make you feel what I felt in that place. Day in, day out. I was losing my mind,” he snarled.  
"You do remember I was a demon right?" Crowley said as softly as he could with the roar of the flame. "I remember it, vaguely. And you just got back! When they hear about this…"  
“I’ll take it,” Azrafell said. “Whatever it is, I’ll take it. They’ve already done their worst.”  
Crowley stared down at the demon in utter disbelief. Even if he wanted to speak, he didn't think he could muster more than an unintelligible string of meaningless sounds. Here he was, breathing in the sulfur and smoke of the burning Gem, in front of a denizen of hell doing almost the exact opposite of anything he would have expected. Letting the humans do as they would was one thing, but this. Azrafell had nothing to gain. His mind flashed back to a calmer time, a light breeze and a cloudless sky, and an entity with white wings as soft as the expression on his face. until he was pull below. It was a startling contrast, but Crowley couldn't help but feel that familiar tug of curiosity and something else that couldn't quite be placed.  
Azrafell glared up at him defiantly with pale eyes, daring Crowley to say something. Anything.   
But before he got the change, people started to yell. Crowley andAzrafell turned just in time to see a horse, flames licking at its bridle, break free of the crowd and barrel down the street. Crowley staggered out of the way, but the beast caught Azrafell as it went past, knocking him backwards into the mud.  
"Damned idiots, someone put it out!" Crowley called, turning to help Azrafell off the ground.  
He had been expecting the demon’s eyes to be flashing with renewed rage. He had been expecting Azrafell to refuse his offer of aid and insist that he was fine. He hadn’t expected to find the Demon staring in horror at where his bandana, caught on the horse’s harness and ripped from his head, had been trampled deep into the mud a few feet away.  
"Are you okay?" Crowley asked with a frown, holding out a hand  
Azrafell lifted a hand to his mouth and nodded.   
The frown deepened. "You sure?"  
Azrafell nodded again. He looked at Crowley’s hand, but eventually pushed himself to his feet on his own. He turned and started walking away from the flames.  
"Wait, Zira. Where are you going?"  
“Away,” Azrafell mumbled.  
Crowley jogged to catch up. "Where to?"  
Azrafell looked up at him. “Haven’t decided yet.” His mouth was barely moving.  
"Then...why leave? Stick around for a while, figure it out first.  
Azrafell just shook his head. He turned into the stables.  
Crowley huffed a frustrated little curse. "Azrafell! Come on, you're overreacting. The shithead deserved it anyway, just wait."  
The Hellhorse’s stall was at the end of the row. There weren’t any other creatures nearby. As Azrafell walked past the rows of horses, they snorted and stamped their feet, eyes rolling. When he got to his own steed, he reached into the saddlebag n the stall door and pulled out a scarf, securing it around his face again. “You can have this one, Crowley,” he said. “My gift to you. These poor fools are going to need all the ki—all the Grace they can get. You’ll have a hard enough time without me here cancelling out your good work.”  
"Azrafell, come on."  
“What?” Azrafell asked, turning back to face him. “It’s hardly goodbye forever. I just can’t stay in this place anymore. I can’t.”  
Crowley couldn't say why he wanted Azrafell to stay. it wasn't so much a concrete reason as it was a feeling. But it was there all the same, that undeniable, unshakeable feeling that the Angel couldn't place. "Azrafell, please."  
Something about Crowley’s voice must have given Azrafell pause. He adjusted the scarf on his nose. “Why?” he asked,softly enought that Crowley nearly wasn’t sure he’d heard it over the commotion outside. It sounded like a genuine plea for understanding.  
"You…you better not be lying to me," Crowley finally said.   
“What would I lie to you about?” the Demon asked.  
"Any of this. I mean, come on, we're the only two that have been down here long enough to give a damn. If we can't have a little trust in each other, then what's the point? Might as well not even have the Arrangement."  
Azrafell looked at crowley sternly. “Of course I’m not. When have Iied to you?”  
"Well, most recently about a week ago." He pointed at the scarf. "That's not just for fashion's sake, and you cant tell me it is."  
There was another pause. “I… walked into that one, didn’t I?”  
"You really did."  
“It’s nothing,” He said. “I—I just didn’t want to worry you.”  
"You genuinely care about that?"  
Azrafell shrugged. “I’m a Demon, I don’t think I can care. But you seemed like you had enough on your shoulders without me.”  
"That's what caring is, Azrafell."  
He looked away.  
"Come on, it can't be that bad."  
“No… no. I’ll get used to it, I suppose.”  
Crowley smirked up at the Demon. Part of him wanted to ask, to press further, but something told him that would only push Azrafell further away.. "Well, have you at least figured it out yet?"  
Azrafell frowned. “Figured what out?”  
"Where you're going. It's a big universe. Lots of places to go."  
He hesitated. “Back to England, I suppose… Maybe re-open that bookshop. It’s been in managerial limbo for nearly a century.”  
Crowley laughed. "You? Sell books?"   
“And acquire them,” Azrafell said. The corners of his eyes crinkled.   
"Mm. Well, I'll have to stop by."  
"When I open, I'll drop you a line." He swung himself up onto the horse. "So. I'll be… popping along, then."  
"I'll see you around, Azrafell."  
“Yes… see you around.” Azrafell smiled down at the demon and rode out of the stall, out of the stable, and out of Deadwood altogether.


	25. Not All Fire is Falling

Anathema looked at the clock. Crowley had said he needed 'some time,' but her fingers itched to find the face in the photo. He gave her his address and told her to let herself in. Surely that was as good an invitation as any.   
She hailed a cab outside, the satchel at her hip bulging with her computer, Agnes's book, and all her equipment. Her leg tapped the whole way over, and she looked out the window, up at the sky.  
Crowley's apartment building was sleek and modern. She paid her fair and trotted to the elevator, punching crowley's floor.  
When she got to his apartment door, she tested the knob. It swung open beneath her hand, and she was assaulted by a wave of smoke.   
She coughed and hacked, staggering back. "Crowley?" She called  
There wasn't a response, but something did speed out from the smog. It was white and orange and wrapped around her foot before she even had a chance to register what it was.  
"Oh, God!" She peered down at it. "A snake?" She shook her head and looked back inside. She took a deep breath and stepped through the door. "Crowley?"  
Somewhere, barely perceptible above the distant roar of flame, she heard a broken scream.  
Anathema pushed farther in, shielding her eyes against the heavy smoke. Flames lickedfrom the double doors of some kind of greenhouse, the heat alone stopping her dead in her tracks. She stepped back, boots crunching on shattered glass, and looked around. A landline was sitting on the counter, and coughing, she stepped up to it.   
Her hand hovered above the nine key when she saw a piece of paper taped to the old ansafone. Zira's shop, a number scrawled messily beneath. She thought back to the fight in the street, and how the Demon had looked at the end of it.  
But another scream from somewhere made up her mind.   
#  
Azrafell had been reluctantly sober for about three hours. An atlas sat open on his restoration desk, and he stared at it blankly.   
When his phone rang, for once, he was almost relieved. He picked up. "A.Z. Fell, rare literary acquisitions and occult exp—"  
"Azrafell!" Anathema shouted, and the Demon held the receiver away from his ear. "Thank God."  
"Please don't,” Azrafell said. He sighed. "What's the matter, Miss Device?"  
Anathema coughed, an ugly, throaty sound. "You need to come to Crowley's place."  
"Forgive me if I decline."  
"Azrafell, it's burning. I can't stop it, and I can't find Crowley!"  
Azrafell froze. "What?"  
"Please, come as fast as you can!"  
Azrafell dropped the receiver. Fire, in Crowley's apartment. He would never have set it himself. Only a few things could have started that blaze. Gritting his teeth, he spread his wings for the second time in as many days. And flew.  
#  
Azrafell arrived, back screaming, just in time to see Anathema come stumbling out. Monty was wrapped around her arm.   
"Where is he?" Azrafell demanded.  
Anathema pointed over her shoulder. "Somewhere in there."  
"Call nine nine nine!" Azrafell pushed past her and inside.   
The heat seared him. He grimaced as he felt the skin of his face tighten.   
"Crowley!" He called. He headed for the greenhouse, knowing full well that the numbskull would die to protect his plants.  
He barely got out of the way in time to avoid a flare of flame licking out of the doorway. It basted him with heat in a way the burning of Hell never could.  
Holy fire.  
Why… unless…  
"Crowley!" He screamed. "Come on angel, answer me!"  
From somewhere in the flames there was a choked sob. It sounded close, but Azrafell couldn't see anything. "Why? Why? I did nothing wrong!"  
The voice, as hollow as it was, made Azrafell go cold with relief. "Come to my voice," he said. "If you can. Anathema is calling for proper help." The roar of the flames made him wince.  
He waited for what seemed like an eternity, listening to the groans of anguish before a shadow began to emerge from the flame. "No. no no no, no no! Please!" His clothes were a mess of blackened fabric, blending into his wings as he crawled backwards towards the door. His arms and hands were littered with small scratches and free flowing blood from the broken glass and he was looking towards the ceiling as if there was someone to cower from just in front of him. "You can't send me there! All I ever did was question! Please! I didn't mean to!"  
Unbidden, words floated to the front of Azrafell's thoughts. Agnes's words. "Crowley, listen to me. Not all fire is Falling. Do you understand?" You're safe. You're safe."  
The Angel turned to look at him and, for the first time, Azrafell couldn't see a trace of his usual cocksurity. His golden irises were rimmed with red and tear lines streaked his soot-covered face. One side of it was caked in blood, his Auburn hair pasted to his temple. "...Aziraphale?" He whimpered. "Aziraphale, why..."  
Azrafell winced, but as soon as Crowley was clear of the flames, he grabbed the Angel under his arms and hauled him away.  
"They can't do this to us," he sobbed. "They're supposed to forgive!"  
Azrafell's throat closed as for a moment, he couldn't breathe. "Are they coming?" He eventually shouted to Anathema.  
"Five minutes!" She called back.   
"Get out of here!" Azrafell said. He pulled Crowley upright. "Can you fly?" He asked. "Crowley. Look at me. Can you fly?"  
Crowley looked at him, mouth ajar and unable to form sentences. "I..it burns...they...oh, God, what have I done?"  
Azrafell sighed. "Bloody Heaven, this is going to hurt. Hold on, angel." He wrapped his arms around Crowley, unfurling his wings with an involuntary noise. He had to get the Angel somewhere safe.  
#   
When they landed in the bookshop, Azrafell didn't so much release Crowley as drop him. Luckily, the sofa was there to break his fall. Azrafell wanted nothing more than to collapse himself, but Crowley's state made him grit his teeth and grimace through the pain.  
The angel was shaking, staring off into the middle distance in horror and pain. His teeth ground so hard that Azrafell thought he might break one. With a strangled cry, his back arched and he slipped onto the floor. There was a steady flow of tears from his eyes.  
Azrafell slowly got to his knees. "Angel," he said. "Do you know where you are?"  
"It's dark," he rasped through gritted teeth. "It's dark and it burns."  
Azrafell looked around. It was indeed dark in the bookshop. The gloom never bothered him, so he tended not to take notice of it. He snapped, and a gentle ambient light flared up. "You're not in any danger here," he said.  
Crowley closed his eyes, still rigid and shaking as he curled in on himself. "How could She let this happen?" He choked. "How could She forsake so many of us?"  
Azrafell's face twisted. "I don't know," he said.   
"What are we supposed to do? What are we?...my wings...I can't feel them."  
"They're there," Azrafell said. "They're whole. It's just a memory, angel. You're safe."  
Crowley didn't respond. He just cried softly from behind his wing.  
Azrafell got up, staring down at Crowley, as fear made way for rage. "I'll be right back," he said, struggling to keep his voice even.   
"No! No, please, don't leave me here. Please, I can't...I…"  
Azrafell flinched from the words like they were blows. "I won't, he said. "But you need a drink. I'm bringing it right back."  
Azrafell fled to the kitchenette, bracing his hands on the counter and struggling to catch his breath. His back twitched and burned, and his mouth tasted foul. "What," he asked, deadly soft, "is Your problem? Hm? Where do You get off in all this? Punishing the unworthy? Who let You decide who that is? People are fragile. You should know. It's Your design flaw. You can't test them to breaking. They might never pick up the pieces!" He squeezed his eyes closed, to ward off a peculiar burning at the corners that he couldn't recall ever feeling before. Smoke, he told himself. It was the smoke.   
He filled a glass with water from the tap, wetting a dish towel as well. He took a deep breath, and stepped out of the kitchenette, kneeling by Crowley once more.  
The Angel had sat himself up against the couch and was looking down at his hands with a vacant expression. His wings were gone, but he still shook. When Azrafell kneeled he didn't acknowledge his presence. His eyes had lost their metallic sheen, dull and yellowed now as he stared past the flow of tears. The blood on his arms, legs and feet had dried, but his head still oozed a slow stream. the line dripped almost to his chin now. But his breathing was even and slow , at least, and he didn't seem to be in quite as much distress as he was before.  
"Here," Azrafell said, holding out the glass. "Drink."  
Crowley glanced over at him, seeming to take a moment to process before taking it.  
Azrafell held up the towel. "May I clean you up?"  
Another moment passed before the Angel nodded.  
Azrafell leaned in and started to dab at the blood matting Crowley's hair. "Do you know where you are now?" He asked softly.  
He nodded again. " think so. Smells like old paper"  
Azrafell looked around at the shop and nodded. "Good."  
Crowley didn't say anything more as he sat. Eventually the shivers stopped and the tears dried.  
Azrafell moved his attentions to the side of Crowley's face. "Are… are you all right?" He asked. "Aside from the obvious, of course. That is… decidedly not all right."  
"I'll be fine. it's not like this is the first time. just hasn't happened in a while."  
Azrafell stopped cleaning. "What?"  
"What?" Crowley asked softly, managing to give Azrafell the tiniest, mirthless smirk. "I told you I was special."  
That burning was back, as Azrafell swept his eyes over the Angel. Damn Gabriel. Damn Heaven. Damn them all to Hell.   
For fuck's sake, they were supposed to be Good! How could someone Good let this happen?  
Azrafell's mouth opened, but closed again before any words could escape. He just started wiping at blood once more.  
"It's fine. Just give me a day, and you won't even remember it happened...how did you know to come?"  
"Miss Device telephoned me," Azrafell said. "When I heard what had happened, I thought… I feared that…"  
"I Fell?"  
Azrafell chuckled bleakly. "It was a toss-up between that and whether Ligur and Hastur had just decided to… remove you after all."  
"Ah. No demons," he grumbled, finally taking a drink. "Just a trigger happy pyromaniac. Who knows? I might still be joining you in damnation."  
"That won't happen," Azrafell said immediately. "Can you… tell me about it yet?"  
Crowley opened his mouth before thinking better of it, turning his attention to a sliver of glass in his palm.  
Azrafell nodded. "That's fine. Let me help with that," he added, pointing to Crowley's hand.  
"Why? I can get it."  
Azrafell nodded and sat back a little.  
The angel began picking out the shards with a hiss. "Why do you care if Tweedledee and Tweedledum take me out anyway? It would make things easier for you."  
Azrafell frowned. "Yes, but you'd be dead."  
"And? We're on opposite sides, remember?"  
Azrafell nodded, looking down at the bloody rag in his hands. "I mean, I suppose you're right."  
Crowley winced as he finished pulling glass out of one hand and moved onto the next. "Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the help. but you didn't seem too keen about us yesterday."  
"I… you were just… making a lot of assumptions about me yesterday. About what I was capable of."  
"What? Being nice? It's not an assumption, Azrafell, it's an observation...oh my God, Monty!" Crowley tried to push himself up, forgetting that he still had some glass shards in his legs and feet, and hissed.  
Azrafell braced his hands on Crowley's shoulders, easing him back down. "Anathema has her! Anathema has her, angel. She's fine. Safe as houses."  
Crowley settled. "All right. Good...there's a lot of glass."  
"Do you want my help?" Azrafell asked.  
"... Yes…"  
Azrafell nodded. "I'll fetch some tweezers." He stood and grimaced.  
"You alright?"  
"Tickety-boo," Azrafell said. "Wait there." He disappeared into the back of the shop. When he was out of Crowley's sight, he stopped and took a deep breath. He was not tickety-boo. He couldn't remember the last time he'd flown so much in a short span of time. Something in his upper back was right on the edge of tearing. He rolled his shoulders, set his jaw, and rifled through the drawers of his desk until he had what he needed.  
"You're a bad liar, Azrafell," Crowley called.  
"I'll make a note of it," Azrafell replied.   
#  
Crowley watched as Azrafell gathered up all the little shards of glass on a paper towel, folding it in on itself so none could fall away.   
He looked pale, like all the blood had rushed from his head and had yet to return, but his hands were so gentle as they wiped and bandaged Crowley's wounds.  
He frowned softly at the demon as he worked. "You sure you're gonna be alright? You look awful."  
"I always look awful. I'm a Demon," Azrafell murmured. "Looking awful is my prerogative."  
"Not always. Only when you think people are looking."  
"Don't start this again, Crowley."  
"I'm not starting anything, I'm just saying that you don't give yourself enough credit."  
Azrafell looked at him sidelong, but all he said was, "Now, you know as well as I do that my sort don't get feelings."  
"You know I can sense emotion, right? The positive ones, anyway," Crowley said offhandedly, picking the grime from under his fingernails. "Believe what you want, Azrafell, but you've got more to you than you think."  
Azrafell gathered up the bundle of glass shards and stood with a small grunt. "I'll discard these. Do you want another water?"  
"I'm good. I should go, see if there's anything left after all of...that."  
"Do you want someone… do you want me to go with you?" Azrafell asked.  
"I'll be fine, It's not a bad walk. I'll get a room somewhere along the way...and some clothes," he muttered, pulling at a tattered sleeve.  
Azrafell nodded. "Yes, rather."  
"I'll, uh...I'll see you around, Azrafell. thanks for the help."  
"Any time," Azrafell said.


	26. Putting a Name to a Face

It was strange seeing the streets without the blur of a speeding car to give them perspective. Crowley could actually see the detail, the people bustling home from their dinners and their meetings, muted conversation and stories muddling together as they passed by storefront windows. Crowley caught a glimpse of himself in one and winced. He looked like a half burnt mummy.  
When he made it to his building, charred clothing changed out for something a little more dignified, there was still dark smoke billowing. A crowd gathered on the street as fire marshals rushed in and out of the building. if he had been braver, Crowley might've gone in to see the damage. But he already knew what would await him.   
At least the Bentley was alright.  
Ignoring the barricade and shouts from civilians and firemen alike, he walked to his precious car and sped off into the streets.  
There weren't many places to go, now that he thought of it. Not that he wanted to travel to, anyway. They were all far away or overdone. He didn't even realize where he was going until he pulled into a parking spot in front of the Savoy. Well… it was as good a place as any, and besides, he still needed his snake.  
Hands in his pockets and head hung low, he checked into a room before heading up to Anathema's.  
He didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't for the young lady to sweep him into a hug, burying her face in his chest.  
"I don't, wha… hello?"  
"I'm so sorry about your apartment," Anathema said. "Are you all right?"  
"I'm fine. just came to say thanks and grab my snake. Can you… stop…" he muttered, wiggling his way out of her embrace.  
"Oh. Yeah." Anathema let go. "Sorry, too much. She's this way." She beckoned him farther into the room. Monty was curled up on a pillow on the queen bed, sooty but unharmed.  
Crowley grinned tiredly. "Look at you, you sneaky bastard. It's gonna take ages to clean you up."  
Monty lifted her head and quickly slithered over to him. She flicked her tongue at him as he lifted her onto his shoulders   
"Thanks for watching her. She hates being alone."  
"Of course. She was lovely."  
"Good. Any news on our boy?"  
She shook her head. "It's just a face right now. I don't have access to the databases I would need to match it."  
"Well, if you need help, I'm in three twelve." he raised a finger as she went to speak. "Try not to need me." With that, he turned and left to go to his room.  
#  
Azrafell's wings dragged the ground behind him as he paced. Intermittently, one or both of them would twitch, sending fire lancing down his spine, but he ignored it.   
The atlas still sat open on his desk.   
Crowley was out of commission and they still had a sword to find.   
If Azrafell were to… assist… well, he'd still just be fulfilling the terms of the Arrangement. Maintaining a balance between Good and Evil, making sure Heavenly and Hellish influences cancelled each other out… it had always been what they did.  
And technically, he was still thwarting Heaven. So plenty of harm in that.  
Azrafell chewed his lip and tasted blood.   
He'd have to catch a cab.  
#  
He still trailed holy smoke like a miasma, not having bothered to purge it from his clothes before leaving. The pain of his wings had faded to a manageable level, and he rolled his shoulders as he knocked on Anathema's door.  
"Hello? Crowley?"  
"Ah… no, I'm afraid not," Azrafell said.  
"Azrafell! Give me a second."  
He frowned, but waited, plucking at his suit. He hadn't looked this disheveled in decades. His cravat was gone, top couple of shirt buttons undone. The collar of his suit was singed, and he hadn't bothered to put his hair back up when it began to fall out of its knot. All in all, a disgraceful presentation. No wonder occupants of the lobby had eyed him when he walked in.  
Anathema finally opened the door, wet hair pulled back into a loose braid. "Sorry, I needed something less smokey. How are you?"  
"Quite all right," Azrafell said, stiffly. "And yourself?"  
"Pretty good, all things considered. do you want to come in?"  
"'Want' may be a strong word," Azrafell said. "But I rather think I ought to."  
She stepped aside to let him pass. "I'm sorry I called. I know you both have this whole...thing going on, but there was no way I could help him."  
"Don't apologize," Azrafell said, straightening his waistcoat. "It was necessary. Crowley is quite lucky humans have the luxury of being kind."  
She looked him over curiously. "You could say that. So, what's up? I was just getting ready to try and figure out who this guy is, so I don't know if I have a lot of time to talk. We've only got a few days left."  
Azrafell frowned. "What ‘guy?’"  
"Oh, we found the sword's resting place. The stone was sitting in the middle of a convenience store in the quaint little town a ways away. Luckily they had security cameras installed, so we got a face for our thief."  
"Well," Azrafell said, impressed despite himself. "Haven't you been busy? How do you plan to go about locating him?  
"Well, that's what I can't figure out. I can't get clearance for the databases we would need to even get an idea about who he might be. I can't just walk around the city until I find him in my usual ways, and he might not even be in the city."  
"You need clearance, you say?" Azrafell murmured. He paused. "Tell me, Miss Device, how opposed are you to things of a… questionable legality?"  
"Well, I mean, if it ends up being the thing that saves the world it can't be bad. Why? Can you get access?"  
"In a roundabout way," Azrafell said. "Though I'm afraid it'll be you doing most of the accessing."  
"Anything helps." She said  
Azrafell grinned. "My dear, you have no idea how refreshing it is to talk to someone with a nuanced moral compass. Come with me."  
"Well, I have different opinions than most people."  
Azrafell led Anathema from the hotel room. "Never let that change"  
"I don't plan on it." She paused before glancing over at the demon. "Not to step on any toes, but why are you helping again? That argument you and Crowley was pretty intense."  
"The Angel and I have had an… Arrangement for quite some time. We… cancel each other out, if you will. Now, with him removed from the equation, I am obligated to step in and see that things remain neutral."  
"That's it? After all that, the only reason you’re here is a deal?"  
"Why else would I be?" Azrafell asked. He looked down at her, for some reason genuinely curious to hear her answer.   
"You've known each other for the entirety of recorded time. it seems a little strange that you only see each other as business partners, because I know Crowley doesn't." She returned the look with a smile. "He cares about you, whether or not he'd admit it."  
Azrafell looked away. "Crowley cares about everyone. He can't not care. He's an Angel. He's made of Love."  
"Please, you bicker like an old married couple. He genuinely cares, more than anything else from what I've seen. He gets flecks of an adorable shade of pink in his aura when he talks about you."  
"That is because he has the capacity, my dear," Azrafell said automatically. But in his mind, he was actually thinking something more along the lines of pink? What in Heaven was that supposed to mean?  
"Who's to say you don't? You rushed to help someone who's supposed to be your mortal enemy. The way I see it, you have to feel some kind of love to feel betrayal and anger, or else it would just be indifference." She smirked and faced forward again. "Yours is doing something similar, by the way."  
"Don't be absurd," Azrafell said, raising his arm to hail a cab. "For as long as there have been Demons, it has been known they cannot feel anything extant beyond the realm of sin."  
"And who told you that?"  
"I beg your pardon?"  
A black taxi pulled up, and Azrafell opened the door for Anathema.  
She slipped inside, adjusting her skirts to make room. "who told you that?"  
"Multiple individuals," Azrafell said, sliding in next to her. He leaned in to the driver. "New Scotland Yard, if you please." He sat back as the car started to move. "Too many to count. It is simply common knowledge. A Demon can no more love than an Angel can hate."  
"Common knowledge is cultivated by those in power. Sometimes it's accurate, and sometimes it's wrong, and sometimes it's complicated. What goes through your head when you see Crowley?"  
Azrafell blinked. "My dear, are you really attempting to ‘therapy’ me in the back of a public taxicab?"  
She paused. "I didn't mean to. Either way, think about it. Nuances are great, remember?"  
The Demon looked at her from the corner of his eye, sitting with impeccable posture. "Fine. But I won't make any promises."  
She nodded and settled back into the seat.  
#  
When they reached the police station, Azrafell let Anathema out. He looked up at the large, imposing facade pensively.  
"So what's your plan?"  
"At the moment? We wait. Someone useful will soon be along."  
"Okay. As long as you don't do the whole mind wipe thing".  
Azrafell paused. "Oh. Ah… all right." He thought. "Would it be more tolerable if I were to… put them to sleep?"  
She made a face. "Only if it's unavoidable."  
"We're breaking the law, Miss Device. Generally, witnesses are a bad thing."  
"I know, I'm not saying don't do it. I'm just saying leave it as a last resort."  
He sighed. "Very well… Oh, look." With a slight inclination of his head, he indicated a uniformed PC and a plainclothes DI, trotting down the stairs. The Detective was talking animatedly to the constable about something, moving her hands and making the bangles on her left wrist glitter. Azrafell cracked his knuckles. "They shall do nicely."  
Anathema frowned. "Uh… lead the way?"  
The Demon did, dropping his gaze to the ground and weaving a little as he walked. He collided with the shoulders of both police officers, attempting to push between them with a mumbled apology. As the detective and constable protested, the constable actually drawing his baton, Azrafell slurred another loose "sorry, sorry," and slunk around.  
“What was that for?” Anathema hissed, as Azrafell approached her again.  
He pulled his hands from his pockets, flipping open the wallets he held in each. "Here you are… Detective Inspector Dowling," he said, tossing her a cream hide wallet and a badge. "And as for me… hm." He looked at his wallet one more time and snapped, and Anathema watched as his clothes just… swapped places with those of the Constable, who seemed not to notice that he was now wearing a slightly burnt, grubby suit from the Victorian era. Azrafell tucked his hair under the helmet with an expression of disdain. "After you."  
“How did you do that?” she demanded. “And - and why?”  
“We need to get inside. They had our tickets.” The Demon grinned. “And sleight of hand has always fascinated me.” He held them out to her again, more insistently this time.  
She took the badge and wallet, slipping them into a pocket. "Won't I stand out like this? It's bad enough that I sound foreign."  
"Just stay close to me. I have a trick or two up my sleeve."  
"All right."  
Azrafell linked his arm in Anathema's and jogged up the steps. They breezed inside, people's attentions sliding off them like… whatever it is water slides off of.  
A flash of a badge here, a nod there, and they swept through to the offices with no problem.   
"Just find your Inspector's desk," he said. "She ought to be able to look for someone. It is her job."  
She nodded, keeping here eyes peeled for the name Dowling. The office, when she found it, was small and secluded. She tapped Azrafell's arm and led him inside when the coast was clear.  
"I shall keep a lookout," he said. 'But do be quick."  
"All right."  
The Demon posted himself at the door. "What will you do?" He asked.  
"...Look around? I'm not very good with computers to be honest, but I'm sure I could figure it out."  
"Ah. Rather."  
#  
Azrafell stood watch as she got to work, listening to the steady tap of keys and the occasional muttered phrase. It took a long time and considering that it was already late, the few people that did pass paid a little more attention than he would have liked. But no problems arose, no one asked questions and no one seemed unusually interested in him or the office behind him. It was nearly one o'clock when Anathema finally spoke. "So, this...thing you and Crowley can do," she said, glancing back over her shoulder at Azrafell. "Is it a permanent thing or..?"  
"Usually," Azrafell grumbled. "It's rather supposed to be." He looked over his shoulder at Anathema dryly.  
The majority of her focus remained on the monitor in front of her. "Seems a bit like an overkill, if you ask me. Don't you have a history of appearing to people anyway?"  
"Me? Absolutely not," Azrafell said. He shuddered. "The less I'm remembered, the better… making you rather vexatious," he added under his breath.  
"Well, I can't really be the first," Anathema said as she glanced at him. "There have been trillions of people living over the past 6000 years, and there are plenty of accounts of Angel or Demon encounters."  
"Hmph." Azrafell made a face. "Many on both sides of the divide like the attention. It makes them feel powerful, or important, or something." He shuddered. "Can you imagine."  
"Yes, actually. It's not that hard."  
Azrafell shot her a lazy half-glare. "It's bloody odd of you, even you must admit."  
"It's kind of hard to admit something like that when my experience is my only point of reference," she said.  
"You're not supposed to remember any experience to have a point of reference," the Demon said tetchily. "You're not supposed to ask questions, and you certainly aren't supposed to change the subject. The damn thing seems to work less and less on you each time as well." He turned to face her, eyes narrowing. "and that's not even mentioning how you can See us. Terribly inconvenient of you."  
She shot him a cheeky smile. "Maybe I'm just special."  
He paused. "You might not be far off, come to think."  
"Oh?"  
Azrafell shrugged. "You're a full-blown Nutter."  
Anathema glanced up at him. ""Well...that's kind of rude. I get that I don't have the most typical personality, but-"  
"Capital 'N,' my dear. You're touched by... something. What, I'm not sure. I've no doubt it makes you resistant to tampering via occult forces."  
"....Right. yeah, that would make sense. Add it to the list of gifts," she added under her breath, turning back to the computer.  
"I must admit, I'm rather glad you're on our side," Azrafell mused. "Dreadfully inconvenient to have you running around thwarting my wiles at every turn."  
"One, I'm not on your side, I'm just trying to keep the world from ending. Two, I don't think that's my job description."  
"We may just have to count ourselves lucky that I'm not more interested in actually corrupting humanity," Azrafell murmured, looking back out at the hall. "Otherwise we may find out."  
"I guess. You are pretty helpful."  
"You take that back."

#

"I think I found something."  
"Pray tell," Azrafell said. He Lurked over her shoulder. Lurking was, aside from thieving, one of Azrafell's greatest strengths. He gathered the shadows of the room about him like a coat, draping himself in the cob-webbing uneasiness of being watched. It was largely his Lurking presence that had driven away passersby.  
"I think I managed to find a way to upload a screenshot of the video without pinning it down to my phone. You may have to help me with that later, though, just to cover our tracks. Anyway, I ran it through one of the identification data bases and we have some matches." She gestured at the five faces and names on the screen. "The video was blurry, so it couldn't get a perfect match, but five is better than thousands."  
"Five indeed…" Azrafell leaned in. "And you can get names and places of residence? Just like that?"  
"Have them all right here. I'll print them out, them maybe you could...I don't know, wipe the computer or something? They can get a new one, I just don't want this coming back to us."  
"That I believe I can do."   
Anathema clicked on a few windows, and under the desk, there was a whir of waking machinery.  
After the images printed, Azrafell blew softly on his fingers, reached out, and touched the screen. The monitor flickered, CPU wheezing like a dying spaniel before the image faded to black.  
"Great...do you think they'll check the cameras?"  
Azrafell snapped. "We won't be on them."  
"Even better. Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Hope everyone is staying safe and well in these crazy times. I feel like we say this a lot, but thank you for being patient with these sporadic updates. We're both fairly busy, and with the added stress of everything else that has been happening in the world, updating slips our minds. But thank you for staying with us. Hope you enjoyed the update!


	27. A Demon Who Did Not So Much Rise

Crowley didn't sleep that night, taking time to clean himself and Monty to keep his mind off things. His door was locked, his lights were on and his blinds were wide open. he refused to let any part of the room remind him of Hell.  
Thankfully, anathema seemed to take the hint, leaving him to his own devices. The sword was still missing, and as much as Crowley wanted to finish this as quickly as possible, the very thought of it conjured up images of Sandelfon's smile and fire and that dropping sensation in his stomach returned. So he laid on the floor and focused on his breathing. In for five, hold for two, out for six. It was something he learned that helped him cope, to let his mind go numb. It was a comfortable sort of dark. The feeling of the floor underneath him and of Monty resting on his stomach kept him grounded. So he breathed. He didn't know for how long, but time wasn't the point. He needed to come back to himself, to separate what had to be done from what had already happened.  
Eventually he sat up and moved to the bed to attempt sleep. it didn't happen, but he tried all the same.  
Occasionally his mind drifted back to Azrafell. There was something off about him. not in a bad way, it was just different than anything Crowley remembered from when he Fell. now that he thought about it, it was a fairly constant feeling, going back a few millennia. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, and that alone frustrated Crowley, but something about him didn't quite match the archetype of your average demon. In all the centuries he'd been around, he never knew any of the denizens of Hell to have even one selfless moment, or a blip of caring for anyone's well being besides their own and Lucifer's unless it sided in furthering their own dastardly plots. Sure, Crowley had been a little different, but he'd always chocked it up to being able to actually think for himself. And while that could be the case for Azrafell, Crowley couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more, something familiar about him. He'd braved holy fire for the Angel, for heaven's sake, and even after all of the horrible things Crowley had said.  
The beginnings of a thought started to form in the back of Crowley's head, but he quickly snuffed it out. No need to get his hopes up.  
#  
Azrafell bid Anathema goodnight, frowning when she whispered a room number in his ear.  
He strolled out of the Savoy, taking a deep breath of the night air. He'd picked up some new clothes off a businessman on the way back, and though the tailoring was appallingly modern, the fabric felt expensive, and Azrafell supposed it would do in a pinch. He bound his hair back up and started walking.   
He didn't know where to. Coffee, perhaps, or tea and cake. It was London, there was bound to be some place of quality open serving the nightlife (and the morning-life, as the sun began to light the sky in flame). But every establishment he passed, he found his appetite slipping from him like water off…  
Ducks!   
Yes, ducks. That was it.  
His aura was not pink. Demons didn't do pink. Gabriel had called it, once upon a time, and Hell was only too happy to let him have it. Pink was frivolous. It was soft, and gentle, and comforting. It was warm.   
Aside from the fire, not much about Hell was warm.   
Azrafell couldn't fathom what it was about Anathema's words that so vexed him. What did she know? She was Mortal. She could speak to nothing of the intricacies of the infernal and the divine.  
Could she?  
Azrafell wasn't sure how it happened, but at one fourteen p.m, twelve hours deep in contemplation and no closer to resolution, he found himself back in the Hotel Savoy, standing in front of door three hundred and twelve.   
He had almost knocked so many times he was starting to get angry at himself. What was he so scared of? This was ridiculous.   
He closed his eyes and rapped sharply on the wood, three times.  
There was some shuffling behind the door, then a couple moments of silence before it opened. "Azrafell?" Crowley looked at him with a softly cocked eyebrow, feet bare and yellow button down only buttoned halfway. He looked better; his eyes shone again and his face, while haggard from fatigue, didn’t carry a trace of the gut wrenching fear and sorrow it had the previous evening. "... She told you, didn't she?"  
Azrafell paused. "Would you rather I left? I didn't mean to intrude."  
"You're being ridiculous, just come in."  
"I am not ridiculous," Azrafell muttered. But he followed the Angel inside. "How are you holding up?"  
"Better. I don’t want to curse my existence anymore." He glanced over at Azrafell as he sat in the computer chair. "You?"  
"Same as ever," Azrafell said. He cast about for something to talk about. "Miss Device has narrowed our potential suspects from roughly three billion down to five, so that's… good."  
"Really? I wonder how she pulled that off. " he smirked.  
"Well, she's rather ingenious with those computers, as it turns out."  
"Mm. So you're helping again?"  
Azrafell shifted uncomfortably. "As per the Arrangement."  
"Oh, of course. You can sit, Azrafell, you don't have to stand there like a beanpole."  
Azrafell rolled his eyes, but settled on the bed, hands in his lap. "I… came to see if you were ready to talk," he said.  
Crowley's expression closed slightly and he inhaled deeply. "Oh."  
"Is that a no?" Azrafell asked.  
"No, you should probably know so that I have someone around who I don't have to explain this to over and over and over again." He sighed. " it's pretty obvious that something went...wrong during my return to the Silver City."  
Azrafell paused, but nodded.  
"Good, glad we're on the same page. Now, I don't know why, but for some reason that screw-up manifested as...a sensory overload? Takes a minute to describe it, really. On top of Rising, which is not fun, I have the memory and feeling of Falling without the benefit of Hell's influence to numb all the...really bad bits." His tone was light, almost joking, but his eyes were guarded like even now he was choosing his words carefully.  
", from what I remember, being told all the horrible nasty things that you're supposed to be as a demon validated it. Helped you believe you deserved the pain, because that's what demons are, right? You're surrounded by it, you live in a dark, smelly hole all the time. All anger and sin. Not that I believed it completely then, although you do feel things differently. After turning back, all those repressed issues came...bubbling back up."   
He looked down at his hands. "It was bad at first, happened almost every day. I didn't know what caused it, I didn't know how to stop it, and no one appreciated it, trust me. That's probably why they posted me back here. But after a while I learned what the triggers, how to cope with it. And it's been millennia since I've had an episode, but with the sword and the threats and Sandalphon coming down to burn my home and tell me that he'd frame me just so he could get to burn the blasted planet to its roots...I stretched myself too thin. That's all."  
Azrafell didn't speak. His mind scrambled for words, but all that was there was heat. His head pounded, and his eyes burned. He saw the Angel start to look worried, knew he should say something, but what was there to say? How did one respond to… that, except by screaming curses at the guilty parties, tearing them from their hallowed halls and casting them down into the flames to burn like they burnt all who broke their crucible?  
When the silence had stretched far, far too long, Azrafell simply whispered, "Oh, Crowley."  
He offered Azrafell a tiny smile. "It's fine, just something I have to remember. I don't even think the Almighty knows about it, Gabriel keeps it hushed up. Doesn't want his mistakes to show." One eyebrow rose. "Don't get emotional over it."  
"How little you must think of me," Azrafell said. But his mind was on Heaven, and the plans rapidly forming for them.  
"Why? I have literally said nothing to make you think that."  
Azrafell tilted his head forward. "I don't get emotional, angel."  
"Zira, I can see you tearing up and plotting from here.'  
"I always plot. It's what I do."  
Crowley groaned and hailed himself out of his seat. "Stop saying that, it's not true."  
Azrafell blinked. "Of course it is."  
"No, it's not."  
Azrafell sighed. Just this once, he decided, he'd let the Angel have it. "Then what is?"  
"It's just different, Azrafell. Takes a while to figure it out since it doesn't feel like how you remember it, and longer if you believe what you're told to." He sat next to the demon, looking him in the eye. "But the ability is there.'  
"I don't know if I can believe that," Azrafell said.  
"Of course you can't, you've been telling yourself it's impossible for six thousand years! But you've gotta start somewhere."  
"You would try to undermine the facts," Azrafell said, voice dull. His eyes scanned side to side in furious thought. It couldn't be a lie. It simply couldn't, because if it was… if it was, the Demon's life would have been meaningless. Utterly. "You're the opposition."  
"And yet here I am, sitting with you, trying to help you understand something that took me a long time to figure out." His voice was soft. "For heaven's sake, Azrafell, I've known you longer than any of them have. I think the whole opposition thing's a little irrelevant for us now."  
Azrafell swallowed. The burning in his eyes overflowed, and hot tracks coursed down his cheeks. "I… I can't, Crowley. This—it's—I don't know if I could bear it."  
He could feel the Angel's eyes on him for a long, silent moment before he felt a hand rest on his back. "I'm sorry, Azrafell. I'm sorry that they told you to believe the worst of yourself was all you'd ever be...I forgive you."  
Azrafell gasped, jerking away from the Angel and off the bed like the words had burnt him. "I need… I need tea," he said, swiping at his eyes. "Or something stronger. I need my books."  
Crowley blinked, letting his hand fall onto the bed. "I've got a flask in my coat," he said, nodding towards the closet. "No books though."  
"I need, I think… I need to catch a cab," Azrafell said, beginning to back towards the door. "Erm. Thank you, Crowley. And I'm, ah. Pleased that you're feeling better. Yes. Rather. Yes. Erm… do give me a ring when Miss Device is ready for us." He paused. "Or… before that. If… if you feel you should. I—yes."  
"Are you all right, Azrafell? I can give you a lift home if you need one."  
Azrafell stopped, one hand on the knob. His throat felt thick. It was hard to breathe. "You go too fast for me, Crowley," he whispered.   
And he left.


	28. Berlin

The air was smoky, even in the hospital. The hospital was nothing compared to the camps, of course, but Azrafell was trying very hard not to think about those. The little he'd been able to do without attracting Hell's watchful eye hadn't been enough. Hadn't been nearly enough.   
Azrafell looked over the beds, and his stomach roiled. People lay on cots, on stretchers on the floor. The air reeked of sickness and infection. Overworked nurses and doctors scurried around him, mumbling apologies, but never looking at his face. He ached for his bookshop. He ached for a time before the war.   
He ached for his mouth to be rid of that rotten, bitter taste humanity always seemed to leave there.   
He watched a man die, thrashing in a fevered seizure and going still. He watched them carry him out on a stretcher to make room for more sick.  
Bile rose in his throat and he turned to go.   
#  
The cigarette smoke mingled with the fog of his breath in the night air. He looked at the glowing tip of the tobacco and sighed. Berlin was a city suffused in pain. Azrafell couldn't tell if that made his own pain easier or harder to bear. There was fear, cruelty, and the worst of all, apathy, hanging in the air like gas that made even breathing an effort.   
He had lit the cigarette to try and wash the taste from his mouth, but it hadn't worked, and he was feeling a little resentful of to tobacco industry as a whole.  
There was a flash of white from across the street, beacon-like in the dreary atmosphere that swaggered past like a green stick in the wind.   
Azrafell dropped the cigarette, putting it out with his shoe, and tugged his scarf up over his face. He raised a hand and waved to the figure.  
The figure paused, peering between his sunglasses and hat at the demon. "Azrafell? Should've known you'd find your way here."  
"I can't say I was expecting you," Azrafell said, as Crowley approached. "I would have thought Head Office wanted you to stay closer to the 'good guys'' home base."  
"Well, I need to know what we're up against. It's miserable out here."  
"You have no idea," Azrafell muttered grimly.  
"Want to walk it off?"  
"Walk what off?" Azrafell said. But he fell into step beside Crowley.  
"The fog. Sometimes walking helps."  
"Ah, I see."  
"So," the angel sighed. "How've you been? It's been a while."  
"Mm… forty years… I'm well, mostly. The bookshop remains intact. What about you?"  
"I've been pretty good actually. Took a few years to travel."  
"Ah, where to?"  
He waved a hand. "Nowhere too exciting. A few weeks in Brazil, some time in the Congo. Even popped up to Alpha Centauri for a bit, just to see it again."  
"Always have had your head in the stars," Azrafell murmured.  
"It's not my fault I made them so pretty," Crowley said as he smiled   
Azrafell smiled back. He hoped it showed under the scarf.  
"Still insisting on covering you face, huh?"  
Azrafell shrugged. "When it suits me. People tend not to look at it very often anyway."  
"Why is that?"  
"Oh, surely you've noticed. It's the eyes, I think. Humans don't like them very much."  
"I mean, obviously. I was talking about the scarf."  
"Oh. I don't know, really. I can make it harder for them to See, but I have yet to truly perfect the method." Azrafell plucked at the bottom hem a little.  
"If you say so."  
Azrafell looked over at the Angel. "What was that tone?"  
"What tone? There's no tone."  
"You had a tone," Azrafell said. But he didn't even try to sound put out.  
Crowley flashed him his most innocent grin. "I really didnt."  
Azrafell laughed, but as they passed a broken, empty tenement, he sobered. "So," he said. "What do you think of… this?"  
"It's awful," Crowley said, scrunching up his face. "Definitely top ten on the list of worst things humans have done."  
Azrafell nodded. He hesitated. "They think I've done it," he said.  
Crowkey blinked. "Really? Well, I'm sure they're happy about that."  
“Oh, very pleased,” Azrafell growled. “I got the commendation two weeks ago. Came over to see what the fuss was about.”  
Crowkey hissed a breath between his teeth and shook his head. "I'm sure that was fun."  
"Oh, yes, it was delightful," Azrafell sneered. "Humanity. You'd think I'd stop being surprised by them after all this time."  
"Oh, they're not all bad. This is just one of those times the bad ones are coming out of the woodwork."  
"Hmph."  
They walked past four armed guards, heading the other direction. Azrafell spied the red bands on their arms, but kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and fought the rising bile in his throat.   
Crowley snarled softly and tipped his hat lower to cover his eyes. he seemed on edge, more so than normal. He hunched his shoulders close to his ear and kept his head low.  
"What's wrong with -" Azrafell began to ask, but paused when he heard sounds of a muttered conversation and approaching boots from behind.   
"Halt!"  
He heard Crowley groan and slow. but he didnt quite stop, almost as if he was trying to will the men away.   
"I said halt!"  
"This will be fun," Crowley muttered down to Azrafell.  
"Hören Sie auf, wo Sie sind, meine Herren! Dreh dich um!"   
Azrafell rolled his eyes, but stopped and turned along with Crowley. "Yes, yes, very well," the Demon said.  
The nazi's face twisted into an ugly smile. "English. Yes, I thought so. Herr Fell, I must say. Your reputation precedes you."  
Azrafell frowned. "It… does?"  
"Of course. We are quite familiar with the work of the infamous AZ Fell."  
The frown deepened. "You… are?"  
"Oh, how could we not be? For an agent of British Intelligence, he has surprising little regard for subtlety. What with the white suit, the red hair. He leaves his mark on everything he touches. And yet he still manages to elude us. But no more, it seems."  
Slowly, so very slowly, Azrafell turned to look at Crowley.  
"Well I couldn't use my name, could I?" Crowley huffed, crossing his arms. "Besides, there isn't a good abbreviation for mine."  
"Perhaps you should pick some other ones, then," Azrafell said primly.   
"Meine herren, please. Let us make this easy for all involved. Herr Fell, you will come with us. Or we will shoot your friend." He smiled again. "Is that easy?"  
"Oh I wouldn't do that," Crowley said. "He gets rather testy when he's upset."  
Azrafell shrugged. "Why would I be upset? I'm rather enjoying this, to be honest. I get the impression that I was never meant to find this out. So please, allow me to savor it."  
"So you shall not be making this easy," the Nazi said. He didn't seem disappointed.  
"That would be a no, mein freund," Crowley drawled  
"Wunderbar," the Nazi said. "I must admit, I have been waiting for this since Poland." He drew his gun and levelled it, his three cronies following suit.  
"Really? Here? Dont be so predictable."  
"Who will stop us? We will be rewarded, and one of the most infamous English threats will be dead."  
Crowley waved a hand between himself and Azrafell. "I mean, it's pretty obvious."  
The nazi pulled back the hammer of his weapon. "And where are your weapons? We are armed. You are not."  
"You dont know that," Crowley scoffed. "I consider myself a deadly weapon."  
The nazis laughed.   
The leader pulled the trigger.  
Crowley rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. The smoke around the leader's barrel froze, the bullet just piercing the cloud. "They'd get more done if they didnt talk so much," Crowley muttered.  
"Ah, but we are poor, defenseless Englishmen," Azrafell replied. "Not a true threat at all."  
"Doesnt mean you have to be inefficient," Crowley said, sauntering forward and poking the bullet.  
“Maybe let’s not give the nazis performance tips, Angel,” Azrafell said. “What have you done this for, by the by? Your people will almost certainly pick up on a miracle of this size.”  
"Well, it's either this or be discorperated." Crowley plucked the bullet from the air, turning it over in his thin fingers. "I don't think they'll mind in the end."  
"And did you have a plan for dealing with the men themselves?" Azrafell asked. "Or were you just going to leave that up to me?"  
"I could deal with them. but if you have any fun ideas, I'm all ears."  
"I think my standard fare should do nicely," Azrafell said. He cracked his knuckles. "Shall we get a wiggle on?"  
"Wiggle on?"  
"Yes, it's - oh, just snap your fingers, Angel."  
"I have a name," Crowley said. he continued to fiddle with the bullet with one hand and snapped with the other.  
Time sprang back into motion. The shot rang out, but there was no impact. The nazi caught sight of Crowley out of the corner of his eye and jumped. "Was zur Hölle?"  
"Wrong," Azrafell said. "About him, at least. But that's all right. Don't look at him." He grinned under the scarf and added an undercurrent of compulsion to the words. "Look at me."  
They did, all four of the Nazis, though none could quite fix their eyes on his face.   
"See me," Azrafell crooned. "See me."  
The leader's legs began to shake.   
His fear sent something singing through Azrafell's veins. Something not completely unpleasant. "See me," he hissed. His view narrowed to a pinprick, the world shrinking to only him and the four bloodless men slowly sinking to their knees, suddenly as unable to look away from his eyes as they had been to look into them a moment before.   
Terror was sweet on his tongue, cleansing the human rot from his palate. He pulled his scarf down and smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, he knew. But his loathing of these men oozed from him like ichor. "My, what large teeth I have," he purred, approaching the men. No, men was too good a word. "Can you imagine what I shall do with them?" He dragged a claw down the leader's cheek. "Do you See me now?"  
There was a cough somewhere off to his right. Pulled briefly from his little game, Azrafell looked up to see Crowley staring. He wasn't able to place his expression.  
The world snapped large again. It wasn't just Azrafell and his prey - Azrafell and the Nazis - it was everyone else too, and Crowley -  
Azrafell took three sharp steps back, fumbling the scarf back up over his mose and mouth. He cleared his throat. "Right. Yes. Well. That has - erm. Well. I doubt they will trouble anyone for a good while now."  
Crowley looked him over slowly. "Right...you four. Shoo."  
The shaking Nazis staggered to their feet, walking off the way they had come with that disjointed shamble Crowley had seen in Alexandria and Deadwood.  
Azrafell was looking very hard at the cracked pavement.  
"I think we should take this inside," Crowley murmured, his gaze following the men. "Just for a minute."  
"Rather. Yes, I think so. Ah. Lead on," Azrafell said. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, what the churn of emotions in the back of his skull really meant; he was just sure it wasn't good.  
Crowley nodded and started off down the street.  
Azrafell walked a few paces behind him, staring at the back of the Angel’s head like he could peer into his mind and figure out what he was thinking.   
He hadn’t meant to get so carried away. He certainly hadn’t meant for Crowley to see… that. Was the Angel frightened? Disgusted? Angry?   
First time he and the Angel see each other in nearly half a century, and Azrafell had almost… done something he would have regretted. If only for the indigestion.   
Did other Demons have this problem? No, he supposed not. Other Demons seemed to actually enjoy it. They wouldn’t have backed down for fear of looking bad in front of an Angel… though Azrafell supposed they probably wouldn't have threatened Nazis in the first place.  
For all his talk, and all his teeth, Azrafell thought grimly, he wasn’t actually good at his job.  
The angel was silent as he strode through the streets, scanning the buildings like he was looking for something specific. Eventually he settled on a rickety set of rusted metal doors that seemed to lead to a partially collapsed warehouse. He heaved a door open and motioned Azrafell inside.  
There wasn't much to the space, but as he stepped into it he realized that it wasn't a warehouse at all. Broken wooden pews lay strewn about the room, mixed with sprinklings of stained glass and overturned candle sticks. A statue of Mary and Jesus leaned against the far wall, chipped and cracked in front of a miraculously untouched wooden cross.   
Crowley shut the door behind then, pulling off his glasses. "Right, what was that?"  
Despite being so long-abandoned, the floor of the church made Azrafell’s feet burn a little. He grimaced as they tingled, threatening to go numb. “Really?” he muttered. “Here?”  
"What? It's quiet, it's out of the way, and I guarantee you no one will come in here."  
“Fine, but if I burst into flame, that’s on you,” Azrafell said.  
"You wont, it's barely consecrated. Now, what. Was that?"  
Azrafell had been doing a reasonably good job of maintaining eye contact. Crowley was one of the few creatures that would look him in the eye, and he’d always appreciated the Angel for that. But at Crowley’s words, Azrafell looked away. “I… what? You’ve never seen demonic punishment before?” Before he was even done speaking, he cursed himself, cursed his tone, but he couldn’t very well admit that he didn’t know what it was either, could he?   
"No! I mean, yes, but not like that. That's...newer. You've done it a couple times, but I haven't seen anyone else do anything similar."  
“Maybe I’ve just gotten better at my job,” Azrafell snapped. He closed his eyes. Again, the petulance, the defensiveness. This reunion was going splendidly. Azrafell’s teeth throbbed, as they often did, and he tensed to forestall a wince.  
There was a long, silent pause before Crowley spoke again. "All I'm saying is that you didn't have to do that. Im sure they deserved it, just...not then."  
“I know,” Azrafell whispered.  
He could feel the Angel's eyes on him, quiet and judgmental he was sure. Crowley stepped forward after a moment. "That's what they did to you, isnt it?" Crowley asked, gesturing to his face. "Before Deadwood. That's why you cover up?"  
Azrafell hesitated before reaching up and pulling the scarf down around his neck. His beard was as neat and well-kempt as ever, but his jaw sat differently on his face than it used to. He was sure Crowley noticed. So he snarled half-heartedly at the Angel, thoroughly showing what Crowley had almost certainly gotten a glimpse of when Azrafell had menaced the Nazis. They were big, heavy teeth that looked more suited to snapping bone or rending meat and gristle than they did to any of the dining Azrafell tended to partake in. It was an ugly, scavenger’s maw, befitting something meant to prey on the dead, or on those far weaker than it.  
Crowley frowned at him, crinkling the glittering designs around his eyes. He looked like he was sucking on his own teeth, and Azrafell thought he could see a flash of something dark flit across the Angel's face.  
Azrafell nearly pulled the scarf up to cover his face again. Of all people, he had thought, surely Crowley would understand. Eyeing the Angel now, though, Azrafell felt his resolve faltering. But the damage had been done. There was nothing for it. He raised his chin and set his jaw, meeting Crowley’s golden eyes.  
"Why'd they do it? I've never heard of hell making additions to anyone."  
“I suppose because very few others have been as spectacularly defective a Demon as I’ve proved to be,” Azrafell said.  
"What do you mean, defective?"  
Azrafell hesitated. “I - I’m not sure. Exactly.”  
Crowley crossed his arms. "Well you have to have some reason to think that way. Your self esteem isn't that shitty."  
“The involuntary removal and replacement of my dentition did give me some idea that perhaps something in my life had gone awry,” Azrafell snapped, top lip curling back over fangs.  
"Sorry," Crowley said with a wince. "I didnt mean...look, all I'm saying is that even Hell doesn't do things without reason. Mostly they're stupid and misguided, but still. You must have done something that they really didnt agree with."  
Azrafell fell silent.  
"You can talk to me, Azrafell. I just want to understand."  
“Oh, is that all?” Azrafell asked. But the words had no venom in them.  
"That's all."  
He chewed on the words, looking at Crowley long and hard. “I… helped a little girl,” he eventually muttered. “Well. Saved. I Saved her. She was dying, starving to death, and she just looked so frightened, and I… well. Of course, the one time I slip is when Hell is watching. Up to then I had never been a particularly bad Demon, but at least I wasn’t good. But they couldn’t very well send me back to your side again. Not for something as paltry as a single human life. So I needed reminding, they said. Of what Hell meant.” He spoke low and quickly, hating that he had to say it aloud at all, let alone to the Angel; his words grew slurred as he did, the large, thick fangs impeding his enunciation in a way he still wasn’t quite used to. “They gave me a new face. And a new… I don’t know. Something.”  
Silence fell again and, for a moment, Azrafell feared the worst. But instead, Crowley reached forward and laid a warm hand on his shoulder. "Well, let's...try and keep it in check from now on, all right?"   
Azrafell was frozen for a moment, looking at the hand. But he nodded and pulled the scarf back over his face.  
"Not like that," Crowley sighed, shaking his head. There was still an undercurrent of something in his tone that Azrafell couldn't place,though it didn’t seem precisely negative. "Just don't, you know, zone out."  
Azrafell nodded again.  
"Right. Come on, let's get out of here. Smells like mildew."


	29. An Angel Who Did Not So Much Fall

Azrafell had thought getting out of Crowley's room would help. But the thoughts, it turned out, were still there.   
Crowley didn't know. He couldn't have known, how could he? Azrafell had carefully omitted anything from his personal narrative that took place between Eden and his stationing on Earth.   
There was no way the Angel could have understood Azrafell's need to be unforgivable. Or why the alternative was so much worse. He staggered to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of deep red wine.   
He uncorked it with his teeth. He'd always despised his teeth. They hadn't been his, to begin with. He never asked Beelzebub or Dagon where they had been before they were in Azrafell's mouth, and He got the distinct impression that he wouldn't like the answer.  
He could recall with crystal clarity the way they had ached at first. It wasn't the sort of feeling one easily forgets.   
What kind of Demon was he? Not a proper one at all. Wouldn't fly, wouldn’t tempt, wouldn't serve Satan past the letter of his orders.   
Crowley had been right. The mask was cracking. And Azrafell realized with something akin to dread that he didn't know what face was waiting beneath.  
He stared gloomily down at his glass of wine and did not drink.  
#  
Crowley wasn't sure what just happened. One minute everything seemed to be going relatively normally and the next his best friend was crying and practically killing himself to leave the room.   
He hadn't known what to say. He wasn't used to seeing the Demon in distress, much less so at that level. He thought if he said what he would have wanted to hear when he Fell that it would have helped.  
Obviously not.   
It was true, though, and he wished Azrafell could see it.  
He rubbed a hand down his face and laid back in his bed. They didn't have time for this. Sandalphon had most likely already made his fraudulent claims, Gabriel could show up at any moment and they still didn't have the sword.  
And yet he couldn't shake the feeling that, somehow, this was just a little more important.  
He could go to Anathema's, try and figure out if any of these men had it. For all he knew this could be over today. So why was he putting on a few more layers with the express intent of going more than a floor down?  
In the Bentley, Crowley rifled through his CDs. He needed something… calming. Something to relax him. Mozart? Mozart. Sure, why not.   
He pushed the disk into the slot, and Mozart's hit number "Life on Mars" began to pour from the speakers.   
He didn't even know if Azrafell would want to see him. He certainly hadn't seemed too keen when he was fleeing the room.   
He wove in and out of traffic.

I wonder if they'll ever know?   
They're in the best-selling show.  
Is there life on Mars?  
#  
Crowley took in the shuttered windows, the closed sign prominently displayed.   
And he knocked.  
"Oh, bugger off," a voice snarled from inside.  
"You'll have to do better than that," he called.  
There was silence from inside for what felt like an eternity before bolts started to turn. Azrafell opened the door and looked up at him, squinting a little in the light.   
"Could you be any less enthusiastic?"  
"I'm not predisposed to enthusiasm." He stepped back. "Come in, angel."  
He did, a little more carefully be normally would. he saw the opened bottle of wine on a desk and glanced over at the Demon.  
Azrafell shrugged. "Can I pour you a glass?"  
"Why not?"  
The Demon did so, handing it to Crowley before settling in his wingback chair.  
"Thanks. You left in a hurry," Crowley said as he slipped and picked out a chair.  
"Needed some air," Azrafell said.  
"So you traded one room for another? Seems a little counter intuitive to me."  
The Demon sighed. "Are you here to give me a hard time?"  
"No. Just… you… you seemed like you needed a friend. Even though you left. To be alone… I should just," he muttered, standing to leave. In hindsight, this really was a terrible idea. Azrafell had let him know that much.  
"Wait. Crowley, wait," Azrafell said.  
He paused.  
"You came all this way, and I'd hate for it to be… just sit down, would you?"  
"I mean… fine." Crowley sat back down, sipping from his wine.  
"Thank you," Azrafell huffed.  
He nodded. "So… feeling better?"  
"Define 'better.'"  
"Not as much in existential crisis mode?"  
"I'm not sure," Azrafell admitted.  
"Do you want to talk it out? I can be a pretty good sounding board."  
His breathing quickened, almost imperceptibly, and he looked down at his hands. His dark eyes were haunted. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to start."  
"Then just pick a random spot. Sometimes you just have to start talking."  
"And—and what? Just… just lay it all out?"  
Crowley nodded.  
"Right… okay." He took a deep breath. "And you, ah… showed me yours, as it were, so I suppose it's only fair that… yes. I… I never Fell."  
Crowley sipped and nodded again, leaving room for him to speak freely.  
"I believe most entities would assume that the physical fall itself is at best tangential to the transformation from one to the other. A side effect, if you will. But…" he trailed off and smiled, the expression sad and distant. "It is, as it turns out, rather a pivotal part in the process. So in never falling, I, ah. Never Fell."  
"So what happened?"  
"Well, Dagon and Beelzebub were left with an Angel, you see, when they really needed a Demon. So they tried to recreate the effects of a Fall as best they could." Azrafell stared grimly into the dark opening of his little furnace.  
"...ah."  
"It was dark, mostly. I recall at first that I hated that I couldn't see what they were doing. Then I was grateful for it. By the time they got around to my eyes I had decided that even when I could, I wouldn't look."  
"So they made...they…"  
Azrafell smiled again. "I'm not sure where everything came from. I never asked. And I genuinely couldn't tell you how they finished the process. There's a, uh… a blank spot. I'm not sure if that's their fault or mine. Whatever they did, it did the job."  
Crowley was quiet for a long moment, although he couldn't tell if the pause was more for the demon's sake or his. As he looked at his friend he could feel the rage and sadness bubbling up to choke out his words. He wished he could say something, anything to make that look in Azrafell's eyes disappear. "I'm sorry, Azrafell."  
The Demon looked down. "Do you understand now why what they say has to be true?" He asked. He worried the hem of his waistcoat. "Because… because if it's not… everything they did to me, everything I am… it was pointless. It was all pointless." And for the second time in all of creation, Azrafell's eyes spilled over.  
It nearly broke Crowley to see. Maybe it was because it was so rare. Maybe it was because he saw himself in Azrafell at that moment, and maybe it was a combination of this and more, but before Crowley had a moment to register what he was doing he was across the and holding the Demon as if he'd disappear at any moment.  
Azrafell gasped a little, one hand rising tentatively to rest on Crowley's back. "What…"  
"I am so, so sorry."  
"This is ridiculous," Azrafell said thickly. "It's been six thousand years. Nearly all of creation. Surely that's plenty of time to cope." He sniffed.  
Crowley just shook his head.  
"I really can't say why I'm behaving like this," Azrafell continued, his words taking on an odd, thready quality. "I see myself everyday. It's old news. None of this shocks me anymore. I'm dreadfully… dreadfully sorry, angel. This is quite undignified of me."  
Crowley released him and clasped his hands onto Azrafell's shoulders. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Absolutely nothing."  
Azrafell looked like he might protest, but all he said was, "Oh, I've got your collar wet."  
"It'll dry." Crowley said with a smirk.   
Azrafell laughed a little, blinking up at the ceiling. "So. Is there any other dirty laundry you'd like to air out? We're here, the world is ending. All things considered, the stakes are low."  
"I think we've had enough trauma for now," he chuckled, swiping a tear off Azrafell's cheek before returning to his seat. "Unless there's anything else you need to get off your chest."  
"No… no."  
Crowley nodded, picked wine back up and took a long drink. "How's your back?"  
Azrafell paused. "Better."  
"Was that part of the whole," he waved a hand in a vague circular pattern. "Thing?"  
Azrafell nodded. "Aches and pains tend to come with the package, I'm afraid."  
"I'm sure you've tried fixing it."  
"Oh, it's nothing that a spot of chamomile and a good lie down won't mend," Azrafell said, waving a hand.  
Crowley cocked an eyebrow at him. "You haven't?"  
"Well… there's hardly been tine, has there?"  
"Want me to give it a go?"  
"No!" Azrafell said, eyes widening. "No, I mean… I think that's unnecessary. I'll just… pop to the back after this madness is dealt with and… do it then."  
"...what?"  
Azrafell fidgeted with his hands. "Well if the world still exists after all of this, then i might have the time to… rest. I wouldn't want to put you out."  
Crowley finished up his glass. "It wouldn't put me out. Probably wouldn't take more than a minute."  
"Really," he insisted. "I'll be all right."  
"You sure?"  
He nodded. "Quite."  
"All right "  
"Right." Azrafell picked at his claws.   
Crowley looked him over before hauling himself up. "Come on."  
Azrafell frowned. "Where to?"  
"Dinner. Your choice."  
The Demon laughed a little. "Dear, the world is ending."  
"So we better enjoy this while it lasts."  
He hesitated. "I have a feeling our table at the Ritz will be free."  
"I'll drive."  
Azrafell nodded.  
#  
Azrafell's ears still rang a little from the shock of Crowley's embrace. The Angel had talked the whole way over about small things, little inanities that Azrafell didn't hear, so occupied was he by his study of Crowley's face. His red hair gleamed gold in the sun, to match the eyes sparking with wit.   
There was very little of Gabriel's heaven in Crowley, Azrafell thought. But maybe, just maybe there was something better.  
Their table was free, as Azrafell knew it would be, and he sat with his eyes closed, letting the soft piano and gentle conversation swirl around him like a breeze.   
He heard Crowley slid into the chair next to him, undoubtedly taking up more space than necessary. "It's been a while," he muttered.  
"Mm," Azrafell agreed. "Too long."  
"I'm assuming you already know what you want?"  
Azrafell opened his eyes and looked at Crowley, mock-stern. "I'm shocked you would suggest otherwise."  
He grinned and waved over a waiter. "Just checking."  
After they ordered, Azrafell paused. "You didn't happen to tell Miss Device where you were going, did you?"  
"I...uh...yeah, I should have done that, shouldn't I?'  
Azrafell grinned. "She's a bright young lady, she'll be all right."  
"Yeah, she'll be fine."  
"... Crowley?" Azrafell said.  
"Yes, Azrafell?"  
He sighed. "Thank you. Really. Thank you for not just… leaving me alone in the dark."  
"Any time," Crowley said with a smile.  
Azrafell, without really making the decision to do so, reached out and covered the Angel's hand with his own.   
The Angel's head twitched down to look at it, bird like in his surprise. Then his smile widened a bit, he flipped his wrist and closed his fingers around Azrafell's hand.


	30. London

Azrafell was nearing the end of his rope.   
It was hard enough trying to conduct literary acquisitions in a warzone on its own.   
But when the Darling of British Intelligence was lurking just on your periphery at all times, it tended to make dealers and collectors who were less than above-board a little skittish.   
Crowley had followed Azrafell back from Berlin. Always keeping his distance, never quite out of sight. It was stifling. Despite the warm words of comfort in the church, Crowley was waiting for him to step out of line again. Azrafell was a danger. He might forget himself at any moment. He needed to be monitored. For the Greater Good.  
Angels. Insufferable, the lot of them.  
It was his most recent deal, potential deal, really, that did it. Azrafell had planned to meet with a man who had somehow come across a first edition of The Grimoire of Agrippa by Pierre d'Aban, a tome that the demon had been trying to track down for a little over a century.  
It was the perfect meeting. Azrafell was rather proud of it, actually. Everything seemed to just fall into place. He was supposed to stay at the bookshop after hours so they could conduct their business in private and, admittedly the thought of finally owning the book lifted just a bit of the irritability.  
When the last patron left the shop, Azrafell finally stopped Lurking in the back and met the man from where he sat in one of the many plush, hidden chairs.  
"You really do have quite the collection," the man said, making no effort to hide how impressed he was. He was younger, with brown hair, grey-blue eyes and an innocent enough demeanor. Azrafell couldn't remember his name. "Must've taken you ages to come by it all."  
“Oh, millennia,” Azrafell purred. “But it’s rare indeed to come across a tome like yours. Where did you pick it up?”  
"Does it matter?" The young man said with a shrug, pulling a satchel up from behind the chair. "Just be glad I've kept it safe."  
As they fell on the bag, Azrafell’s eyes lit up. The young man glanced at them, more daring than most would be capable of. Azrafell really would have to get his name. “I am sure you have a price in mind,” he said.  
"I do. But I'd like to hear what you're willing to offer first."  
“Oh, the finances are no object. May I see the book? The condition will be… largely determinant of my number.”  
The man looked down at Azrafell's bare hands suspiciously.   
Azrafell smiled with closed lips. "Please, come with me. The proper facilities are in the back."  
With a nod and a huff, the young man pulled himself out of the seat. He clutched the bag close to his chest.  
Azrafell couldn't help smiling a little as he led the seller to the back. The restoration desk was illuminated by a single hanging lamp, spotless and free of dust as ever. Azrafell retrieve a pair of gloves from the box on the edge of the desk and offered it to the young man.  
"Thank you, but I have my own."  
"Of course," Azrafell said, trying not to let his impatience show. The Grimoire wasn't the rarest tome on the planet, but a first printing - well, it would certainly be a jewel in his collection.  
Just as the young man was pulling his gloves from a pocket in his satchel, the front door opened. He froze. "I thought you were closed, Mr. Fell."  
"I am," Azrafell muttered, peering between the shelves to see who had entered.  
He but back a snarl as he saw the shock of red hair moseying it's way through the isles, doing a very poor job at seeming interested in the wares   
"Who is it?" the young man asked, peering out from behind Azrafell  
"No one," Azrafell said, hoping the force of his glare might burn a hole in the back of the Angel's head. "Just ignore him."  
It did get his attention, but the numbskull just nodded and kept perusing.  
"...okay," the young man said. His grip on the satchel tightened and he seemed a little more uneasy, but he walked over to the desk anyway.  
Go on! Azrafell mouthed to Crowley, glaring a final time before following the young man back to the book. "So. As we were, then."  
"Right. Here it is." He pulled the book from his satchel with a proud little smirk and laid it gently on the desk. "Just, be careful please."  
"You have my assurance, sir. I shall use my utmost discretion." Gently, ever so gently, Azrafell cracked the cover. The smell of old paper made him smile, and he closed his eyes. "Marvelous. Immaculate." He flipped through page after page. "This preservation, it's very nearly archival! I may be interested in a glance at your collection," he added, looking up at the young man.  
He laughed, some of the nerves seeming to melt away. "Oh, it's nothing compared to this. It's just a hobby, really. So many of the older editions are lost simply because people grow tired of them. Someone has to keep them well for newer generations."  
"Preserving the legacy of your forefathers for the betterment of your children," Azrafell murmured. "Do you deal much in the Occult, Mister…? Sorry, bad ear for names."  
"Shadwell. And not as often as you might think. but history is history, strange or otherwise."  
"Too right, too right. Agrippa didn't dabble too much into the practice of magic, you know, but his essays on the theory of the subject paved the way for those who came after him."  
"I've heard."  
Out in the main room there was the muffled but undeniable sound of books falling and hissed curses.  
Azrafell looked sharply over his shoulder.   
"Rather loud, aren't they?" Shadwell joked dryly.  
"Mm. And if they ruin anything," Azrafell said, raising his voice. "They will pay for it sorely."  
"Sorry!" Crowley's voice drifted up. "Won't happen again."  
Azrafell closed his eyes. "Yes, well. Where were we? Yes. Agrippa. Quite. He was a bit of a fuddy-duddy really, if you ask me. The quality of his writing aside, you couldn't sit down with the man and talk about anything worthwhile. As soon as you left the realm of canonized occult doctrine, he would just start babbling on about Albertism and Thomism and the like. Dreary at best, but far more often simply infuriating." Azrafell knew he was talking too much, but despite his quip, the young Shadwell's eyes had flashed with nervousness when the books fell. Azrafell had a feeling that if he couldn't keep the lad's mind off the Angel who inexplicably refused to vacate the foyer, the whole sale would be a bust.  
"You speak about it as if you knew him."  
He glanced up. "What?"  
The young man was frowning. "Agrippa. You speak about him with an air of familiarity. Do you study his works, or…?"  
Azrafell thought quickly. "Oh! Ah. Yes, rather closely. He and his contemporaries did a lot for the… collective occult learnings of the day."  
"I see. Tell me Mr. Fell, if it's not too bold to ask, do you normally conduct your business this way?"  
"And which way is that?" Azrafell asked, closing the book.  
"Well, you seemed rather insistent on having this transaction remain as secretive as possible. Not that I mind, of course, it just...raises some questions. I'm not…" he glanced back out towards the main room. "Interrupting anything, am I? If you catch my meaning. I am very grateful for your interest in this piece, and you seem an honest, if eccentric, learned man. But something about all this feels...out of place?"  
"You aren't interrupting anything," Azrafell said, some irritation leaking into his voice despite his best efforts. "Ignore him."  
"He is here after hours," Shadwell pointed out. "If you'd like, we can arrange another time to complete this transaction. Give you some time to think about an offer."  
"No, no, that won't be necessary," Azrafell said quickly. "Let's talk price."  
Shadwell nodded and pulled the book closer to him.   
Both of their heads snapped around at the crashing sound of breaking glass and a stream of sounds that could have been curses or someone choking on a biscuit.  
"I'm going to kill him," Azrafell said. He was proud of the calmness in his voice. He held up a finger to Shadwell. "Wait here." Pulling his scarf up over his face, he prowled out to inspect the damage.  
He rounded the corner just as Crowley had finished his small miracle, the display case to his left untouched. "Sorry," the angel said. "Foot caught on the rug."  
"What are you doing here?" Azrafell asked.  
"You've been avoiding me. Just wanted to check up."  
"I haven't been avoiding you, you've been stalking me! You seemed happy enough to lurk in the shadows like some sort of two-bit imp, so I thought I'd leave you to it!"  
"What do you mean stalking?" Crowley Hissed. "I'm just making sure you're okay!"  
"I'm fine!"  
"You're not fine, you've been acting strangely since the Nazis!"  
"Strangely how? I haven't eaten anyone! I haven't even looked at anyone I didn't have to! What more could you ask for?" Azrafell demanded in a harsh whisper.  
Crowley rolled his eyes. "That's not what I meant and you know it."  
"Oh, do enlighten me, then!"  
"I dont know, you're just off! You seemed like you needed someone after Berlin."  
"Needed - needed someone? Like what? Like, someone watching me?" Azrafell demanded, unsure whether he felt more hurt or justified at having his assumptions confirmed. "Keeping tabs on me? 'Oh yes, must keep that old Demon in line, lest he starts maiming his customers!' I'll have you know I am doing fine, thank you very much. In fact, I was in the midst of some business with one such customer before you - staggered in. So… yes."  
Crowely blinked. "what are you talking about, Azrafell?"  
"In… in the back, with the… with the book." Azrafell pointed. "What did you think I was doing back there?"  
"No, not about- look. Who you talk to and what you do is your business, I was talking about the part where you said I-"  
Both of them looked up as the door opened and shut behind them. Satchel in hand, Shadwell just disappeared from view. walking briskly down the street.  
Azrafell watched his shape recede into the night. "I've been looking for that edition of that book for one hundred years," he murmured. "And I had it. In my hand."  
"He seemed like a nice enough man. shouldn't be that hard to get it back."  
Azrafell's eyes slid to Crowley, ears pounding with numb heat. "I think you ought to leave, please."  
Crowley frowned down at him, infuriatingly oblivious. "Are you sure?"  
"Very."  
One eyebrow rose. "All right. I'll, ah. I'll see you around then." With one more once over, the Angel walked over to the door and ducked out into the night.  
Azrafell pulled his scarf down around his neck and leaned on a heavy mahogany table, taking deep breaths.  
#  
Azrafell's shop was empty. He liked it empty, liked the special kind of quiet they only ever came from that particular insulation of still air and ancient paper.   
He peered out the window again, the third or fourth time in that hour. He still didn't see Crowley. Not at the cafe, or the park across the street, or driving past outside. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of the Angel in the days since their row. Served him right, surely, for invading Azrafell's privacy so. He hoped the nosy goody two-shoes had learnt his lesson about prying into other people's lives.  
Was he okay? He didn't give up. And he'd never just vanished before.  
No. No, he was fine. He was… reclining on a cloud. Playing a lyre. Doing whatever he did when he wasn't making Azrafell's life miserable.  
He ought to send a telegram to Shadwell, Azrafell thought, looking back at his restoration table with a sigh. Maybe it had been long enough since the disastrous sale that he'd consider giving it another go.  
Yes, that's precisely what he would do. He made his way to the back of the shop to collect his coat and scarf.  
Just as he finished arranging his garments there was a knock at the door.  
Azrafell debated ignoring it and leaving out the back. But he was waiting on that delivery of a tenth century biblical misprint. He'd hate to have tk go to the post office and sign for it. He sighed and went to the door.   
When he saw who it was, he sighed again, and pulled the scarf ip over his face before opening it wide. He waited expectantly for the newcomer to speak.  
"Figured it would be better to knock this time," Crowley said. His shoulder length hair hung around his face like a wet dog's fur, the drizzle making his light suit darker in places. Unlike normal, he had a midnight blue band around his hat that matched the ascot under his chin and the cloth wrapped package peeking out of his coat. "Can I come in?"  
Azrafell looked him up and down. "Yes, yes," he eventually said. "Come on, you look like a soggy ferret." He stepped back from the door.  
Crowley nodded and stepped inside, careful to stay away from the shelves. He shuddered at the temperature change.  
"Towel?" Azrafell asked.  
"Please." Crowley pulled the package from under his coat and started unwrapping the damp cloth from around it  
Azrafell turned and disappeared to the back. In the neat little kitchenette, there were a stack of dish towels. He took four and returned to the main room.  
Crowely had hung up his coat and hat. there was a perfectly dry dark oak box sitting of the seat next to where he stood.  
Azrafell eyed it. "That's new."  
"It's not really," Crowley said. He took one of the towels and ran hit through his hair vigorously. "I'm just glad the rain didn't get to it."  
"Get to what, Angel?" Azrafell asked. "What do you want?"  
"Just delivering an olive branch, Azrafell, calm down."  
He paused. "A what?"  
"An olive branch. You know, a peace offering?" Crowley pulled the towel off his head, his hair now a fluffy mess. "Go on, open it. The sooner you do, the sooner I'll be out of your hair."  
Azrafell's eyebrows rose, and he opened the box.   
Below the scarf his mouth opened, and closed, and then opened again. "How did you get it?"  
"It was easy really. Found that glorified librarian Shadwell, had some lunch. Nice man, strange tastes. Turns out he was as paranoid out by your meeting choices as he was about my being here." Crowley smirked, golden eyes glittering. "Didn't take much to explain it away."  
Azrafell looked up at the angel. "Why?" He asked. "Why do this for me?"  
"Because we're friends and I ruined your chance the first time." Crowley paused. "And, I guess I could have handled the past few weeks a little better. So, I'm sorry."  
Azrafell blinked. "I…"  
Crowley looked him over for a moment and sighed. "Right, guess I'll be off then. Enjoy the book, Azrafell." He turned and started tugging his coat back on.  
"Wait… Crowley, wait. Hold on."  
He looked back over his shoulder. "Mm?"  
Looking at the book in his hands one more time, Azrafell pulled his scarf down around his neck. "Would you allow me to… tempt you to lunch?"  
The Angel's lips curled up into a full blown smile. "You are better at it than me."


	31. The Sword Discovered

Anathema was waiting on a bench outside the savoy, arms folded, when the Bentley pulled up. As Azrafell and Crowley got out, one of her eyebrows rose as she looked between them. Like she knew something.   
"Have a nice afternoon?" She called.  
"Yes, we did."  
"Good. Can we save the world now, please?"  
"What do you think we were doing?" Crowley joked. "I hear you found some leads."  
"Five of them, as a matter of fact. But only one that fits the prophecy." Anathema stood as they reached her, hand on her satchel.  
"Let me see."  
Anathema pulled her phone out of her satchel. "His name's… Arthur Young?"  
"And how does he match our prophecy?"  
"Well, I did some digging on him, and I found his name on a registry for a society of people who believe they're descendants of King Arthur. 'Younge Kyng-sonne,' anyone? And!"  
"And?" Azrafell asked.   
"Take a look at his address. He and his fiancee just bought it together."  
Azrafell looked. Number 4, Hogback Lane. "At foure of the road, on the spine of a hog," he murmured.  
"Well I'll be damned," Crowley said. "That's not too far away."  
"I wouldn't recommend it," Azrafell muttered. "Do either of you feel like a trip to Oxfordshire?"  
"Let's get this over with."  
#  
"News guy wept and told us  
Earth was really dying  
Cried so much his face was wet,  
Then I knew he was not lying."  
Azrafell eyed the car radio. "Cheerful," he said. "What's this?"  
"The lesser-known Carmina Burana movement, 'Five Years,'" Crowley drawled.  
Anathema frowned. "That… that's not right."  
"I don't suppose this Arthur Young will just… give us his however-many-times great grandfather's sword," Azrafell said.  
"He night not know it was his however-many-times great grandfather's sword. He may think it's...just a sword."  
"That he pulled out of a rock in a convenience store," Anathema added. "It looked like an accident, really. He actually tried to give it back to Delores. The shop lady," she added, at Azrafell's puzzled look. "But it was like when Crowley and I asked her about the boulder. We couldn't get her to notice it."  
"Maybe he'll just hand it over."  
Azrafell sighed, forehead creasing with worry, and for a moment, Crowley was transported back in time, to a meeting on a Wall. "Oh, I do hope so," the Demon said.  
Crowley glanced over and smirked. "We'll be fine. We'll get the sword, put it back, and everything will turn out okay."  
Azrafell gave the Angel a small double-take, smiling a little. "That's the most positive you've been in days, dear."  
"Well I'm not dead yet, so that's a good sign."  
Azrafell chuckled. "Don't joke."  
Crowley glanced in the rearview, and met Anathema's gaze. The young woman grinned at him.  
#  
It was a pleasant ride, the three trading between comfortable silence and easy conversation. Eventually they pulled up to a quaint little cottage with a garden surrounded by hedge bushes and a picket fence.  
"This does not look like where one should expect to find the sword of War," Azrafell murmured.  
"Nice… car," Anathema said, nodding to a rusted-out classic car up on blocks in the driveway.  
"Pet project, do you suppose?" Azrafell asked.  
"I hope so,” Crowley said. “Or else I have some words for him."  
"I think words will likely be exchanged regardless," Azrafell said. "Do we… knock? Barge in? Is this a heist or an exchange?"  
Crowley rolled his eyes and started up the path. He knocked three times when he reached the door.  
"Dierdre?" a voice asked from inside. "Were you expecting company?"  
"No… who is it, love?"  
"Well, I haven't very well opened the door yet, have I?" The first voice said.   
A bolt slid back, and Crowley, Azrafell, and Anathema came face to face with the thief of Excalibur.   
Azrafell hadn't been expecting him to look quite so at home in a sweater vest.  
"Are you people from the church?" Arthur Young asked.   
"No," Anathema began.   
"Are you selling something?"  
"Not as such," Azrafell said.  
"Because we aren't interested, whatever it is."  
"We're not so much selling as we are in the business of information," Crowley crooned. "We hear you've recently acquired a pretty important piece of equipment."  
Arthur looked back over his shoulder. "My wife's mother got us a new vacuum cleaner. Housewarming gift, you see."  
"No, not a...listen, we know you found a sword in Fenny Park.”   
“Lake,” Anathema corrected.  
“Park, Lake, same difference. There was a sword there. Short, one handed thing, dull design?"  
Arthur paused. "Oh. I think perhaps you'd better come in." He stepped back from the door.   
Arthur Young led the Angel, the Demon, and the Witch into his parlor.   
Papered in florals, decked out in tweed and union jacks, most of the home looked like a monument to the English middle class.  
Except.  
"He has Excalibur on his mantlepiece?" Azrafell whispered to Crowley, as Arthur fiddled with a tea set on a side table. "Next, he'll tell us that that little silver cup next to it is the Holy Grail, and he picked it up at the charity shop down the road."  
Crowley waved a hand at the Demon the quiet him down.  
"Do you take milk and sugar?" Arthur asked.  
"Oh, if you please," Azrafell said.  
"Black is fine, thanks," said Anathema.  
"Same here."  
"So, what bureau are you from?" Arthur asked. "If you're allowed to say, of course."  
"Bureau?" Anathema said.  
"Well, yes. I thought surely someone would be here sooner."  
"Arthur? Who's here?" A woman, presumably Dierdre soon-to-be-Young, poked her head around the door. Blonde and cherubic, she swept bobbed hair from her eyes. "Oh! Hello!"  
"They're here about the sword," Arthur said. "From the Bureau."  
"Oh, which one?"  
"We never said," Azrafell said. "Do you know what you have on your mantelpiece, Mister Young?"  
"Well, it appears to be a sword," he said. "That was in a stone. In a shop."  
"It is. It's also a very important relic," Crowley said. "Been trying to track it down for ages. Never stopped to think that it would be sitting in broad daylight in the middle of a village in the countryside."  
"Yes, well, I did try to return it," Adam said. "But it was the strangest thing. I couldn't put it back in the boulder, and the shop lady wouldn't hear two words about it. And I thought, Deirdre didn't I think, I thought, well. Can't just leave a sword lying in a shop. Someone ought to be along for it soon enough."  
Dierdre nodded. "Quite thoughtful, dear."  
"And here we are!" Anathema said.   
"So will you be, ah… taking it, then?"  
"Right away, I should think," Azrafell said.  
"You know, sir," said Arthur. "This is just my two-penny worth, but it seems that if this is such an important sword, you might want to consider putting it someplace with a little more security. Or climate control. Deirdre, wasn't I telling you about climate control? Naked steel like that will oxidize like nobody's business, believe you me."  
"We'll keep that in mind," Crowley muttered, gesturing toward the sword.  
"Right, yes. Of course." Arthur reached up and grabbed the sword from the mantel, holding it out.  
It was Azrafell who took it from him. The demon's eyebrows rose as flames began to lick up the blade. "I daresay the old thing remembers me." He twirled it once in his hand, and the licking tongues of fire vanished.  
"Of course it does," Crowley hissed, a bit of jealousy coating the words.  
"Oh, hush. You can have a stab later," Azrafell murmured to him.  
Arthur's eyes had gone a bit wide. "What Bureau did you say you were from again?"  
"We didn't." Anathema smiled. "Congratulations, Mister Young. You just saved the world."  
Mister Young sputtered. "R-really?"  
"Anathema," Crowley muttered to the side. "I know you don't like the whole jedi mind wipe thing, but maybe now would be the time?"  
"Yeah,fine," she said. "But just. This. Once."   
"Great." Crowley stood and snapped, freezing Arthur in place. "You'll have to get the other one."  
Azrafell snapped, and Deirdre froze too.  
"All right. So. We're just neighbors dropping by to get to know the new tenants. You never found a sword in a stone, and you definitely won't be going back to that blip of a town to go find it. Got it?"  
The young couple nodded.  
"Anathema, take the sword to the car please."  
Azrafell handed the young witch the blade. She took it as though it might burn her, carrying it from the parlor at arm's length.  
When the door closed behind her, both Crowley and Azrafell snapped their fingers.  
#  
"So what now?" Azrafell asked, as the Demon and the Angel and the witch left Number 4, Hogback Lane.  
"We've still got to put the damn thing back. Hopefully neither of our respective head offices plans a visit in the next two days." Crowley peered in the rearview. "Why are you looking at it like that?"  
"Looking at what like what?" Anathema asked. She still held the sword.  
"Like it's going to stab out your heart and burn your children?"  
"It's the Sword of War! I think it's understandable."  
Azrafell sighed and reached back. "Hand it to me, if you please, Miss Device. I think you'll both be the happier for it."  
Anathema swallowed, but handed the blade to Azrafell, hilt first.   
"Much obliged."  
"So. Are we headed straight there? We only have a couple days at most."  
Azrafell shrugged. "Why wait?"  
Crowley nodded. "are you coming with us Anathema, or would you rather I drop you off?"  
Anathema thought. "You know, I think I'll see this all the way through."  
"Admirable, my dear," Azrafell said. "Admirable."  
"Hang on then," Crowley said with a grin as he floored it.  
#  
"I hope you get pulled over one day," Azrafell growled, as Crowley pulled to a stop in front of the shop in Fenny Lake.  
He cackled as he slid out of the car. "What good would that do?"  
"Let's just get this done, shall we?" Azrafell asked.  
"Wait!" Crowley took the sword and twirled it a couple times.  
Azrafell hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. "Would you like to do the honors, dear?"  
"I want the blasted thing to light up first."  
Azrafell smiled and snapped. Flames began to lick and curl at the blade. They should have been uncomfortably warm on Crowley's hand, but he felt nothing.  
"That's cheating," he muttered halfheartedly, swinging the sword a few times in the night air. eventually the trail it left and the sound of the flames started to make him feel uneasy. He put them out before making his way to the front door.  
Azrafell watched him walk before holding his arm out for Anathema. She took his elbow, and he led her to the door.  
All it took was a wave of a hand and they were in. It was dark in the store, so Crowley added a but of light so they could see the stone. it still sat in the middle of the door, plain and chipped.   
With a little smirk, Crowley strode up to it and returned the sword to the stone.  
There was no… event. No light or tremor, or even a sound besides steel rasping on granite. The sword slid home, but no trumpets played.  
"... Well… that was dull."  
"Yes… do you think you did it right?" Azrafell asked.  
"I think so," Anathema said. "Not everything is about fanfare, you know."  
"A little confirmation would be nice though." After a moment, Crowley sighed and headed back towards the Bentley. "Let's go."


	32. Something Long Overdue

"Angel, is that what it feels like to save the world?" Azrafell asked, about ten minutes into the drive.  
"I suppose so."  
"I do hope no one asks us to do it again," Azrafell sighed. "It was rather an awful hassle."  
Crowley chuckled. "It was, wasn't it?"  
"Well, on behalf of, I think, all of humanity," Anathema said. "I appreciate it. Personally."  
"Oh, this wasn't for you. if the world burned I would be fighting a war. or listening to celestial harmonies all day." He shuddered.  
Anathema laughed. "Well, the thank you still stands."  
"It's nothing, really. You did most of it."  
"Well then,” Anathema said, starting to sound peeved. “Thank you for giving me my book back so that I could."  
Crowley snickered.  
Azrafell harrumphed. "Quite."  
The rest of the ride was quiet. Crowley dropped Azrafell off first, bidding him goodnight with a wave and a smirk.  
When Anathema got out at the Savoy, she held her hand out for a shake. "Pleasure, Mister Crowley."  
Crowley quirked an eyebrow at her as he slipped out of the driver's side. "Don't do the whole 'goodbye, but we're walking the same way" thing. The elevator ride will be so awkward."  
"Then we shouldn't walk the same way," she said. She smiled.  
"...you do realize that my bed and belongings are upstairs, right? I haven't fed Monty in a few days, she'll be angry with me."  
"Give me your key. I'll look after Monty and your things. You should get back in your car."  
"But why? I'm tired."  
"Because," Anathema said patiently, "I think you forgot something in Soho."  
He frowned at her for a moment before it clicked. "Are you… you know what? Point taken." He fished his room key out of his pocket and handed it over. "You better not screw this up. I'll know if you do."  
Anathema blinked calmly at him. "Ditto."  
And with that the Angel slipped into the car and sped off.  
#  
Azrafell was indeed making chamomile. He hadn't been lying to the Angel when he said it helped. He steeped the bag in the tea, thoughtfully watching it bob. Surely, this was too easy. Right? Even though it wasn't technically Armageddon, it was still catastrophic. It must be harder to stop than putting a sword back in a stone.   
Right?  
There was a knock at the door  
"We're most definitely closed!" Azrafell called.  
"Open the door, Azrafell."  
Azrafell paused before pushing himself up and going to the door. He opened it, peering up at the Angel. "Crowley? Did you forget something?"  
"Apparently. Can I come in, or…?"  
"Oh. Yes, of course. My apologies." Azrafell stepped back and motioned Crowley inside.  
Crowley nodded as he stepped in.  
"What did you forget?" Azrafell asked. "Do you know where you might have left it?"  
"I have a pretty good idea."  
"Oh! Quite. Well then, help yourself, I suppose."  
"Alright."  
Azrafell turned to get his tea when he felt a hand grasp his.  
The Demon looked down at where Crowley's fingers twined with his own. "Is everything all right?"  
Crowley smiled and leaned over to give him a kiss on the forehead. "Perfect. Why?"  
Azrafell blinked. "Um. Well. Because… that is. New."  
"Too much?"  
"Now, angel, when did I say that?" Azrafell smiled, more sincerely than he had in… in six thousand years, and brought the Angel's lips to his.  
#  
Crowley hadn't meant to stay the night, it just happened. Every minute he spent with Azrafell lifted a weight off his shoulders that he had grown so accustomed to, he hadn't even realized it existed in the first place.  
Azrafell's black suit, the same one from yesterday, was rumpled after a night of wearing it in Crowley's arms, but the Demon, for once, seemed not to mind.  
"What do you suppose happens now?" Azrafell asked, sipping his tea.  
"I'll check in upstairs I guess, tell them to call off the firing squad."  
"How do you think they'll take it?" Azrafell asked.  
Crowley shrugged. "Well, I hope."  
"Rather…"  
"Gabriel will be fine as long as hell doesn't have it, Michael and Uriel will be on his side. Sandalphon…well, we'll see." He leaned back in his seat. "What about you? You're supposed to have the sword."  
"Yes… I actually hadn't quite worked that bit out yet," Azrafell admitted. "Trying not to think about it."  
"It can't be that hard to dupe them."  
"Mm… one would hope."  
Crowley took a sip of his tea. "Maybe they'll be happy with it returned. Leaves room for you-know-who to come."  
Azrafell just sighed. "Your optimism is refreshing, my dear."  
"That's what I'm here for."  
Azrafell took Crowley's hand, kissing it like he was afraid the Angel might vanish at his touch. "Among other things."  
Crowley grinned and tugged the demon into the chair with him, burying his face in the crook of his neck. "Among other things."  
#  
The Angel had gone some time ago. Apparently, he had to speak to a man about an apartment. Azrafell would have liked to go along, but the chamomile and lie-down hadn't worked like he had hoped, so he waved Crowley off with the full intention of taking some time to truly recuperate.   
Such things, however, were not to be.  
"Azrafell," Hastur said, oozing from the shadows with Ligur close behind. "A word?"  
Azrafell sighed. "I still have twenty-four hours before I should have to look at either of you again."  
"Not anymore," Hastur said.   
"What are you talking about?"  
"Lord Beelzebub has received some… disturbing news, Azrafell."  
Azrafell's thoughts went back to Crowley. They couldn't know about that, could they? Surely not. "Like… what?"  
"The sword has been returned to its resting place," Ligur growled, cocking his head at Azrafell. "Despite having been in your possession."  
"... Yes," Azrafell said. "I discovered that this morning. My only hypothesis on the matter is that it must be enchanted to return to its place of rest if it is not yet time for it to awaken."  
"Or you took it back."  
Azrafell rolled his eyes. "Why in the nine circles of Hell would I do that?"  
"I don't know, Azrafell. Why would you?"  
"Suppose you had 'gone native,'" Hastur said. "Suppose you started prioritizing the monkeys outside over your own kind."  
Azrafell smiled. "Dear, dear Hastur. Allow me to assure you, there can be no two individuals in all of creation than you and I who find themselves further from being 'of a kind.'"  
Hastur frowned. "What?"  
"Look at it this way," Azrafell said. "We may not have the Sword, but Heaven doesn't either. It can only be weilded by War, in keeping with the Plan. Surely that's acceptable."  
"We don't care about the plan. we want to know what you did with it."  
"Nothing, gentlemen," Azrafell insisted. Demons were far too paranoid. Though in this case of course, they were right, but that was irrelevant. "Do you really think I would have done anything to give it up of my own will? I used to own the bloody thing, after all."  
Ligur glared, his eyes flashing from red to brown to black. "I don't trust you, Azrafell."  
"Good on you. Funny old world it would be, if Demons went around trusting each other," Azrafell said. "Is there anything else I can do for you? I do have a business to run."  
"We will be speaking to the dark council about this. Consider this your final warning."  
"Consider me warned."  
The two Dukes of Hell eyed Azrafell disdainfully as they faded back into shadow.  
Azrafell sighed and sipped his tea.  
#  
Hell was not a pleasant place to be. Heaven had triumphed in the First Revolt, and as such, got to keep their room with a view.  
Hell was dense and low-ceilinged. Paper and folders were stacked haphazardly in corners, but the air was always thick and smelled of rotten meat, like someone had tried to set up an office building in an abattoir.   
And the phones were garbage. Ligur had been trying to dial out for some time now, as the damned milled about him like eels in a shallow creek.   
He was almost ready to give up when the back-channel call went through.   
Officially, back channels didn't exist. Officially, they couldn't.  
"Hello?" The Archangel Michael asked.  
"Something's not right on our end. Azrafell is protecting something."  
"What could he possibly be protecting? Since you assured me he never even had the Sword in the first place."  
"That is what I said. But I think someone else was in that shop with him."  
"And what could make you think that?"  
"It smelled too Good in there," he growled. "It was disgusting."  
"Good as in… Divine?"  
"Exactly."  
"Hm… and why should I believe you? You are a Demon, after all."  
"Why would I lie about this? Something Divine was with Azrafell."  
There was a long pause. "We shall… look into it."  
"Good." He hung up with a huff, glaring at his surroundings.   
"Well?" Hastur asked.  
"They're working on it."  
Hastur made a face, eyeing a string of slime as it oozed from the ceiling.


	33. Trials and Tribulations

Azrafell's eyes scanned side to side as he walked, the only thing betraying his nonchalance. Hastur and Ligur hadn't bought it, he was certain. Even they weren't that stupid.  
He wasn't, however, expecting a random bystander to deck him in the temple.  
He staggered, trying to get his bearings, but another punch came soon after the first, driving him to his knees.   
"What the…" he slurred, vision beginning to tunnel. "What the hell?"  
#  
When he awoke he was seated and bound in a darkened room. Eventually he could focus and see a set of figures before him and hear the roar of the damned behind him.  
He looked around. "Well. This somehow manages to be worse than I remember."  
"Hello Azrafell," Lord Beelzebub drawled in it's ever present boredom. "Welcome to your trial."  
"And… what am I on trial for?" Azrafell asked. "Exactly."  
"For consorting with the enemy and keeping the Sword of War from Hell."  
Azrafell paused. "Those are certainly some hefty charges."  
"Well, betrayal deserved a heavy punishment," Ligur said with the smallest of dry smiles. "Not that you'd know."  
"Are you implying that I haven't betrayed anyone?" Azrafell asked. “Because, ah. On this specific occasion, I'm inclined to agree."  
"Shut up, Ligur. Evidence has been brought against you concerning your interactions with a Divine force."  
"Now this I simply must hear," Azrafell said. But internally, he was much less keen.  
"I could smell'em. In the bookshop," Ligur said, seemingly very proud.  
"Seconded," Hastur said. "It was revolting."  
"There was also a lack of evidence for you having the sword, apparently," Beelzebub said. "What do you have to say for yourself?"  
"I would just ask that take a moment to consider my impeccable record. The loss of the Sword is… tragic, certainly. Bjt what purpose would I have for self-sabotage? Especially with something like this, where I would certainly be caught?"  
"Well, you're not a true Demon for a start. If you were, you'd see the upperhand we would have with both the sword and our Lord-to-Be."  
Azrafell fought back a sneer. The words ought to have relieved him, but instead they just stung. "I saw the upper hand," Azrafell said. "Clearly."  
"Then you returned it because…?"  
"I didn't!" It was technically true. Crowley had been the one to slide it home.  
Beelzebub frowned and looked between Hastur and Ligur.  
"He's lying," Hastur said. "He must be, he's odious."  
"I'm telling you, something else was there with him," Ligur snapped  
"Then why didn't you find them?" It snapped.   
"B-because…" Hastur said. "Because they weren't there when we were."  
"So what proof do you have?"  
Hastur's mouth opened and closed, and opened and closed again, like a frog raring up to croak. "There is… there was another smell, a human-smell that was almost as strong as the Divine."  
Anathema? Oh, no. No, no, no.  
"Yes, the human," Ligur growled.  
"...doesn't he run a bookshop?"  
Hastur sighed. "This one was different. It… lingered."  
"You said you had concrete evidence."  
"Let us bring you the human. We can interrogate it," hastur said.  
"Fine," it groaned, waving a hand.  
Both Hastur and Ligur nodded, slinking out the door.  
"Awkward," Azrafell said, the word slipping out unbidden as he thought of Crowley.  
“Excuse me?”  
His eyes flicked up to Beelzebub, and he swallowed. "Just… seems a bit awkward. For them to be so unprepared in all this."  
It glared and said nothing.  
It seemed to take hours for Hastur and Ligur to return. But return they did. And they dragged behind them, bound, gagged, and furious, Anathema Device.   
Azrafell didn't look at her. He stared ahead, at Beelzebub, and curled his lip. "What is this supposed to prove, Lord? I've never seen this mortal before in my life."  
"We're about to find out. Bring her forward."  
The Dukes pushed her ahead until she stood in front of Beelzebub. She glared through her spectacles.  
"And the gag, take that as well."  
"Are you… sure, Lord?" Hastur asked. "Her tongue is… sharp. Perhaps we should, you know..." he mimed a snap. "First."  
"If she wants to speak, let her. It'll only make things worse for her."  
Hastur shrugged and pulled down the gag.  
Anathema looked like she wanted to spit fire at the assembly, but she held her peace.  
Beelzebub peered down at her with a disinterested sort of disdain before snapping its fingers. "Very well. Tell us everything you know about the demon Azrafell?"  
"I don't… I don't know anything," Anathema said.   
Azrafell kept his face carefully blank, but if someone were to look closely they would see that he had stopped breathing.  
Clever, clever, unflappable witch.  
"Well you must know something? We know you've visited his shop."  
"I went to… A.Z. Fell's shop. Don't know any Azrafell."  
Beelzebub frowned, once again looking to the dukes. "What is this?"  
"She was at his shop. She was at his shop when we picked her up!" Hastur protested.  
"Is this true?"  
"Yes. I needed a folio of rare astronomical charts. Mr. Fell is the only one to stock them."  
Beelzebub held out an exasperated hand. "Just..get her out of here. You! In the back, clear out!"  
There was a low mutterings the damned behind the window shuffled off.  
Ligur stepped forward."Lord Beelzebub, I assure you-"  
"Shut it. We've wasted enough time already. Get her out of here, wipe her, and untie...this," it said gesturing to Azrafell.  
Hastur glared at Azrafell, but pulled the gag back up over Anathema's mouth and pulled her away.  
"You're free to go,” Beelzebub sneered. “This time. But from now on we will expect more from you, monthly check-ins and random surveillance. Hastur and Ligur will be in charge of that, since they seem to enjoy finding issues in your life."  
"Of course they do," Azrafell said. "Do I need an escort out?"  
"Just go."  
#  
Now that the mini-apocalypse had been avoided, Crowley had one more thing to accomplish. He marched his way up to head office, dressed to the nines and going over what he would say in his head.  
Sandalphon, Michael, and Uriel greeted him, standing as usual in the middle of the vast expanse of dull office space. The Himalayas loomed out the windows behind them, the view cold, beautiful and perfect. Just like everything else about this place. Sandalphon leered at Crowley, and even Michael and Uriel were looking at him oddly.  
"Morning everyone," Crowley crooned with an impressive amount of false confidence.   
Michael just raised their eyebrow. Uriel and Sandalphon remained unaffected.  
"Tough room. So, good news is, the sword is back where it belongs. Hidden from sight, divine or otherwise. Turns out a human got ahold of it and took it back to his place for safekeeping."  
"And how was the sword returned?" Uriel asked.  
"Funny story, a human found it and put it back. I'd just found its resting place when she returned it, actually. Clever girl."  
"So what you're telling me," Gabriel said from behind Crowley. "Is that you've failed." He came around and stood with the other three archangels. "Very disappointing, Crowley."  
"Not necessarily. The human no longer knows of the sword's location, it's hidden from Hell's sight and I've ensured that it cannot be taken again. Sounds like the best possible outcome, if you ask me." Crowley wasn't averse to lying. After all, he had spent a small chunk of his life as a being of deceit and temptation. But he knew that he would he unable to completely lie to his fellow Angels, so a little truth was in order. Lies always went down better with a sprinkling of honestly.  
Gabriel's jaw worked. "And were you cooperating with this human?"  
"Cooperating with a human? Please, I couldn't even think of the idea." To be fair, Crowley hadn't thought of the idea. That was Azrafell's doing.  
"You wouldn't be lying, would you?" Sandalphon leered. "Very naughty of an Angel to lie."  
Crowley glared. "I found the resting place on my own, she found the sword on her own. She was returning it when I got there, I just made sure no one else could take it. Seemed pointless to remove it again, not that I could."  
"I can smell the human on him," Sandalphon said."  
Gabriel frowned. "Strong?"   
"No… no. Traces." Sandalphon glowered at Crowley. "Could have happened in passing."  
"I'm around humans all day. I'm gonna smell like them."  
"It's the human," Sandalphon said.   
"Well, let's stop all the he-said she-said nonsense and just ask the girl ourselves," Gabriel said. He chuckled and spread his hands. "Surely you don't mind, Crowley."  
He froze. “You're bringing a mortal… here?"  
"Why not?" Gabriel said. "She won't remember a thing."  
"I mean, I guess...sure. go ahead."  
"Wonderful. Michael, Uriel, why don't you go pick her up?"  
The two archangels nodded and walked off, shoes clicking on the polished, heavenly floor.   
Gabriel turned to Crowley and smiled.  
Crowley smiled hesitantly back.  
"So, Crowley. We have a little time," Gabriel said. "Anything else you'd like to… discuss?"  
"Not… particularly. I've been alright. Why? is there anything you want to talk about?"  
"Well, let's just say Sandalphon here has brought some… disturbing allegations against you."  
"Ah, that. Well, I can say that I didn't, but I have a feeling that you'll want more proof than my word." Crowley shifted uncomfortably. "but I didn't attack him. I didn't even know he was coming by. He demanded that I stop searching for the sword so that he could get to the burning quicker. It was an...unpleasant experience, to say the least."  
Gabriel looked between Crowley and Sandalphon. "Yes… I figured as much, honestly."  
"... wait, really? I thought he was your right hand man. I was honestly expecting a little more reprimanding."  
'You're a lot of things, Crowley. But you don't have what it takes to launch an assault on an Archangel." Gabriel smiled again. "Take it as a compliment."  
Sandalphon leered.  
"And you still somehow made it sound like an insult," Crowley muttered. "Thanks, I guess."  
"Of course. So. Let's not give anyone an excuse to doubt you again. Okay?"  
"I feel the ice cracking already," he said with a sort of dry humor. "But I won't."  
Gabriel clapped. "Great! Makes things easier for all of us." He clapped Sandalphon on the shoulder.  
"Right," Sandalphon drawled.  
Crowley offered the shortest, most lackluster chuckle he could manage and shoved his hands into his pockets. "So...how are things?"  
Gabriel made a face. "Don't make smalltalk. It doesn't suit you."  
Crowley nodded, trying very hard to find something else to look at. "Right, okay, won't do that."  
Michael and Uriel returned what felt like a small, silent eternity later, a bound and gagged Anathema in tow.  
"Wonderful," Gabriel said.  
Crowley tried very hard to not let his tension show and, to his credit, he kept it at a reasonable level. still, seeing the young woman restrained and dragged into a place where she should not be on his account made his stomach curdle a bit. He just hoped she didn't say anything that would get them both killed. "That's her," he muttered.   
Anathema glanced at him.   
"I think she can speak for herself," Gabriel said. "Get that out of her mouth."  
Uriel tugged the gag from between Anathema's teeth. She looked like she wanted to say something foul, but she held her tongue.   
Gabriel smiled. "Hello there." He snapped. Anathema's face went blank.  
Here we go, Crowley thought  
"So miss… Device? Anathema Device? Tell me, have you found a sword recently?"  
There was a pause.  
"I have," she said in an easy monotone.  
"Good. And… how did you find this sword?"  
'With my great-great-great-great-great-great Grandmother's book. She was a witch."  
"A human witch?" Gabriel chuckled. "Sure. And did you have any sort of outside assistance?"  
Crowley could feel the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. This was it, this was when he found out if Falling a second time would be as bad as the first.  
"Yes," she said. "Agnes helped me. She knew the future. It was all in her book."  
Gabriel frowned. "Any nonhuman help?"  
"Well, a book isn't human, it's just a collection of words. My pendulum, dowsing rods and maps were also useful."  
Gabriel exchanged a look with Uriel, who spun Anathema around to face Crowley. "Do you recognize that… person?" they asked.  
Crowley gulped.  
"Yes. Apparently he has a really nice garden."  
Uriel looked back at Gabriel.   
"How do you know him?" Gabriel asked.  
"Everybody who likes plants knows him. He runs the only decent community garden in the city. I stopped by once. He was nice."  
"Perhaps she's a bit thick," Sandalphon said.   
"Did he assist you in finding the sword in any way?" Michael asked coldly.  
She frowned. "He grows plants. Why would I need help from a botanist when I have a prophetic book?"  
The archangels all frowned.   
Crowley could barely hold back a grin. "See? I told you."  
"I… suppose you did," Gabriel said. He looked from Crowley to Anathema and back again. He glowered. "Put her back."  
Michael and Uriel nodded, taking her arms and pulling her away.  
"She couldn't be lying?" Sandalphon asked in the ensuing quiet.  
"Humans don't lie under the trance. It's not possible."  
"So…" Crowley said, shifting on the balls of his feet. "Are we done?"  
"For now," Gabriel said. "But watch it, Crowley. We'll be keeping an eye on you. You failed once. Don't let it happen again." He smiled, wide and perfect and white. "Okay?"  
"Wouldn't dream of it."  
Gabriel clapped. "Great! So. You can see yourself out?"  
"Allow me to escort you," Sandalphon said.  
"I know my way out," Crowley said dryly. "Thanks."  
"Really," Sandalphon said. "Allow me."  
"Don't be rude, Crowley," Gabriel said.  
Crowley face twisted into something halfway between a grimace and a glare, but he nodded. "Fine. Lead the way."  
Sandalphon smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. He started to head back towards the entrance.  
Crowley fell in just behind, quiet and seething. He couldn't believe that they had actually dragged a human up to heaven for this, not even giving a second thought to the possible repercussions. sure Anathema was probably more supernaturally savvy than most, but still. a live human. In Heaven? she'd done well. all things considered, and seemed more in control than he had ever expected to be possible. he just hoped they didn't run into her on the way out.  
"You're lucky, you know," Sandalphon said.   
"You're going to have to be more specific."  
"Gabriel was in a good mood today. In spite of everything."  
"Aw, someone's angry that they didn't get to napalm the earth." Crowley shrugged and faced forward. "Maybe if you had left it alone, you would have had your chance."  
"I think you helped the human find the sword."  
"Think what you want, you heard her yourself. I didn't."  
"Oh, once a demon, always a demon," Sandalphon said. "Demons lie. And they make other people lie."  
The words stung more than Crowley expected, but he wouldn't give Sandalphon the satisfaction of seeing it. "And yet, here we both are, you directly criticizing Gabriel's decision, and me as redeemed as I was six thousand years ago." He smiled. "Isn't it funny how the world works?"  
Sandalphon stopped walking. He turned to Crowley and sneered, grabbing his lapels. His fingers began to smolder. "I'm watching you," he said. "One misstep. That's all it'll take."  
Crowley quirked an eyebrow down at him and his now soot-stained collar. "You and the rest of the Host. You may be a pyro, Sandalphon, but there are Angels far more intimidating than you. You just caught me off guard." he patted the smaller Angel's head. "But don't worry about me, I'll be walking the straight and narrow. Like I always have."  
Sandalphon's mouth opened, and then closed again. And then he smiled. It was an ugly expression, curling across his face like a worm. His golden dental decoration glittered. He released Crowley with a shove, and started walking back towards where he had left the other Archangels.  
Crowley brushed off his coat, fingers just barely trembling, before sauntering away.


	34. All's Well that Ends in Survival

There is no better place for a covert meeting in all of London than in St. James's park. The ducks were so used to being fed by individuals conducting secret business that they had developed pavlovian responses to men in wide-brimmed fedoras and black coats.   
Azrafell flicked crumbs at them now and again, but most of his attention was on scanning the area, both for any unwanted observers, and for a particular white suit.  
It wasn't long before a redheaded, swaggering Angel made his way into view. His demeanor was deceivingly nonchalant as he approached.  
"So," Azrafell said, as Crowley came up alongside him. "You lived, then."  
"You did too I see."  
"For the moment, all seems to be well."  
"You think they bought it?"  
"Well, neither of us have been smote. Smote? Smitten? One of those. In the short term, at least, I believe we are safe."  
Crowley nodded, taking some ruined bread from his pocket and tossing it to the waterfowl. "I'll have Sandalphon on my tail for a while. Hopefully he doesn't get too singey again… say, did they bring you-know-who down to testify for you?"  
"They did, yes… little lady lied through her teeth. She do that for you?"  
Crowley nodded. "Didn't think she could do that."  
"Neither did I. Truly remarkable, that girl."  
He nodded. "Think she'll be okay after all this?"  
"If anyone would be, it's her."  
"Fair enough. So, keep to ourselves for a while, wait until this blows over a bit?"  
"I think that's a must, I'm afraid. There's tempting fate, and then there's Tempting Fate, if you catch my meaning."  
Crowley snorted. "Yeah, yeah good point...I'm glad you made it though, Zira."  
"Same to you," Azrafell said. "Earth'd be just a little bleaker without its Angel."  
Crowly chuckled and tossed the rest if his crumbs. “I gotta go, setting up the new apartment. I've got a shipment coming in for the greenhouse."  
Azrafell nodded. "I wish you the best."  
"See ya around, Azrafell."  
#  
"Hi," Anathema said. She smiled at the shop clerk over the rims of her round glasses and held out a book of photography. "Just this, please."  
The shop clerk smiled back and rang her up. "So what brings you to the British Museum today, miss?"   
"I'm here for a covert meeting between myself and the two supernatural entities that helped me save the world from a premature war between Heaven and Hell."  
The clerk's smile turned perplexed. "What was that, now?"  
Anathema spotted a white suit and long, auburn hair weaving through the crowd. "I needed to see a couple of fossils," she said.   
"Right." The clerk held out the book in a white bag. "Enjoy your day, miss."  
Anathema took it. "Same to you."  
Crowley glanced over his shoulder as Anathema came up behind him. "Ah," he said with a smirk. "The lady if the hour."  
"How are you?" Anathema asked.  
"I'm fine. You're the one we should be worried about. you've seen more about the outside world than most humans ever."  
"And yet." She shrugged. "I don't know, from what I saw, Heaven and Hell were just different floors of the same office. Angry bureaucracy is something humans figured out ages ago."  
Crowley cackled and shook his head. "You've got that right."  
"It was honestly kind of underwhelming."  
"I'd say that was hurtful, my dear, if I didn't know exactly what you meant," Azrafell said, seeming to materialize out of nowhere at Crowley's shoulder.  
The angel grinned. "Azrafell, nice of you to join us."  
Azrafell looked around at the giftshop. "Odd choice of location."  
"It's neutral. Neither heaven or hell have anyone who's this tacky and besides, I like gift shops. Big gift shop guy me."  
"Mm…" Azrafell looked around again. "Forgive me, angel, if I can't see why." He turned his attention to Anathema. "Hello, my dear."  
"Hi." She waved.  
"Are you well?"  
"Very."  
"Good."  
"So what are you doing now? Any more prophecies from good old Agnes?" Crowley asked   
"Oh yeah," Anathema nodded. "Agnes has big plans for me."  
"You gonna tell us what they are or…?"  
"I'm not sure yet," Anathema said. "But I think they have something to do with the End of the World."  
"But we...you mean the Apocalypse with a capital A?"  
"I'm afraid this was just a pre-show," Anathema agreed.  
Crowley grumbled under his breath. "Of course it was. And if you're supposed to deal with it, that means it's coming up soon."  
"Relatively soon, maybe," Anathema huffed. "I've still got a whole life ahead of me."  
"No offense my dear, really," Azrafell said. "But in the great, temporal scheme of things, 'your whole life' doesn't exactly amount to a lot."  
"... Thanks."  
"He meant that it's not super long relatively," Crowley said, shooting an incredulous glare at Azrafell. "It's very meaningful."  
Azrafell smiled and winked.   
Anathema smiled back. "Well, no offense to either of you. I like you two a lot. But I really hope this whole 'end of the world' thing, when it does come around, doesn't involve you."  
Crowley laughed. "Fair enough. And thank you again for your help, Anathema. We literally couldn't have done it without you."  
"Trust me," Anathema said. "I'm aware." She stepped up the Azrafell and Crowley, and stood on her tiptoes to give them both a kiss on the cheek. "Be good to each other, okay?"  
"That I can promise. Him, on the other hand…"  
"Just this once," Azrafell said, "I'm considering making an exception."  
Anathema took their hands in hers and squeezed. "Until the end of the world, guys."   
She turned, skirts swirling around her ankles, and strode from the shop.  
"There should be more people like her wandering around," Crowley murmured down to Azrafell.  
Azrafell just nodded.  
"So...lunch?  
Azrafell looked up at Crowley mock-severely. "Are you… tempting me?"  
"I've had some practice," Crowley said with a coy little smirk.  
"Well." Azrafell hooked his hands in his waistcoat pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Temptation accomplished. Lead the way, angel."


	35. London (Again)

The air was biting and cold as Azrafell waited outside the packing plant doors. He fidgeted with his scarf before deciding to leave it down. He blew a stream of foggy breath int the chill evening and cast a worried eye over one of the objects in his arms.   
Was it wilting?  
There was the sound of shuffling just beyond the doors before they opened with a creak and a rush of warm, humid air. Crowley quickly turned and shut it. For the first time in millennia, her hair was cropped short and close to her head in a fluffy red halo. She wore a bright yellow, baggy turtleneck with tapered sleeves and huge pockets, with equally baggy jeans. There was a light blue scarf wrapped around her neck and chin, shielding her against the cold. It was strange, seeing her in colors that weren't quite pastel and Azrafell wondered momentarily if heaven knew about her fashion choices.   
She turned to start her walk home, but started when she saw Azrafell. "Hey! It's been a while. Why are you sitting out here? It's freezing."  
"Hello, Crowley," Azrafell said. He smiled a little. "I doubt it's really my niche in there. A bit… verdant."  
"Oh, you wouldn't hurt anything. What's this?" She asked, scooping the plant from his hands. It seems to perk up a bit as she did.  
"Oh! A - um. Housewarming gift. Warehouse-warming gift? I think it's… customary."  
She smiled and started unwrapping her scarf. "Thank you, Azrafell. Awfully nice for a demon." Her words had no bite, though, as she wrapped she scarf around the pot.  
Despite that, Azrafell snarled as the word buzzed behind his eyes, stinging like electricity. "Don't say that, Angel," he growled.  
She smirked and started walking. "Fine, I won't. So, come to just give me a present did you?"  
Azrafell walked with her. "Well… yes. I'm told that's what people do."  
"Then what's that for?" She asked, nodding to the wine still in his other hand.  
"Oh, well… it was meant to go with the plant, but you… only took the one, so…"  
"I'm clumsy, I cant carry both."  
"Then I shall assist. Where are you headed?"  
"Home, where else?"  
"I don't know," Azrafell muttered. "... I like the hair."  
"Thanks," she chuckled as she started down the street.  
"Quite."  
"So how's the shop? Got any new acquisitions recently?"  
"Mm. Shakespeare Folio." He grinned. "I might have the only copy of the Lost Play."  
"Really? That's a pretty big find. How'd you get ahold of that?'  
"Oh, I wouldn't want to tarnish your Angelic ears," Azrafell said dryly. "Suffice to say a sin or two might have been involved."  
Crowley snorted. "Of course. I forget, is the Lost Play supposed to be another one of his sappy ones?"  
"Love's Labour's Won?" Azrafell asked. "I should say so. But funny, too."  
"Mm. I'll take your word for it."  
"You could…" the Demon hesitated. "You could… read it. Supervised, of course. But… if you wanted to, you could."  
Crowley looked down at him, one eyebrow quirked. "You know I don't read, Zira.  
Azrafell rolled his eyes. "I could read it to you then. I just know how you like his funny ones."  
The other eyebrow joined the first. "...we'll see."  
He glanced up at her. "Really?"  
"Why not? Could be fun."  
Azrafell looked down at the pavement. "Yes. Perhaps it could."  
Crowley shivered against a particularly biting breeze, holding the plant close. "Let's hurry up, my ears are freezing off ."  
Azrafell sighed and unwound his scarf. "Well if you're going to whine."  
"What? no, azrafell, it's fine."  
"Shut up and take it," Azrafell muttered, holding it out. "I'm all Hellfire anyways."  
Crowley sighed and took it, wrapping it around her neck with one hand. "Thank you."  
"Quite."  
The rest of the walk switched between pleasantries and comfortable silence. it was another ten or so minutes before they arrived at Crowley's building. They made their way up, Crowley opening the door with her foot, and came inside. It was warm and there was no wind so it was nice, but Azrafell wasn't expecting the six foot long, white and brown python that darted its way to the front door.  
"Sweet Satan," he said, looking down at it. "How long have you had that?"  
"Oh, since nineteen fourteen? Fifteen? She's harmless." She squatted down and let the snake slither its way up to her shoulders. "Aren't you, Monty?"  
The snake rested its head on top of Crowley's and peered at Azrafell.   
He peered back at it. "You've named your python Monty," he said dryly. "I suppose I should be quite grateful that picking your own name didn't go more awry."  
"Shut up, it was before it was popular. Here," she said, trading the plant for the bottle. "Take this round the back, through the two big glass doors. You can't miss it."  
"Have you picked any others?" He asked, following her instructions. "Or do you still just plan on absconding with mine whenever you find it convenient?"  
"That was one time!" She called, making her way towards the kitchenette  
"The point still stands! Names are important, Angel." He pushed open the glass door and paused. "... oh."  
It was a large space, at least a third the size of the apartment. Humid and warm, the glass window and roof offered a foggy view of the grey sky and city. Rows of soil, some filled with life and others empty, lined the floors. From what Azrafell could see, there was no specific kind of plant that lived here. Some were low to the ground, spreading their leaves almost to the other rows, while others stood as tall as small trees. There was the occasional bench, but other than that it was just plants and dirt.  
"It was an emergency, Azrafell," Crowley said as she sauntered in, her sweater traded for a loose, clay red cropped t-shirt. She had two glasses of wine in one hand, the bottle in the other and Monty draped over her shoulders. "But yes. Antonia. Just a little tweak."  
Azrafell looked around at the greenhouse. "Antonia," he said. "Hm."  
"Toni, if it's easier. Like it?" she asked, handing him his glass.  
"Toni," he said, as though rolling the name around in his mouth. "I suppose I will get used to it."  
"I was talking about the plants, but thanks for that."  
"Oh. Yes. The plants. They're… nice."  
She rolled her eyes and made her way to one of the benches, bare feet padding on the concrete. "Figured you shouldn't be the only one with a collection."  
"Mm. You do a lot of plants, it looks like. The packing plant, and here."  
"The packing plant isn't for me. Not really."  
"Yes, that one did look more… public. Who all is it for, then?"  
She sipped at her wine and stroked Monty's head. "It's a...complicated story."  
Azrafell shrugged. "I don't have any pressing matters this evening."  
"Well...what do you know about the human mental health community?"  
"Erm… nothing. Quite literally, nothing."  
" I thought so. A few years ago, a group of american psychologists started talking about an illness they were seeing in soldiers coming back from Vietnam. They call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder." She sipped. "Makes people anxious, and if it's bad enough they can flashback to the event that caused it in the first place."  
"Sounds unpleasant," Azrafell said. This is a… chronic condition?"  
Toni nodded. "Sometimes it gets better, sometimes people are always sensitive to their triggers.  
Azrafell nodded. "I see."  
"Here's the thing though," Toni said, standing and sipping. "It's not just a military issue. And people aren't thinking about it that much. It can happen with any trauma, abuse, neglect, accidents. But these people tend to be forgotten because their trauma isnt as 'important' as a soldier's." She paced as she spoke, using her hands more to emphasize. "And they may continue to be at this rate. So I...came up with a little plan."  
"What plan?"  
She grinned. " Apparently having a group of people who know what you're going through helps. they call it a support meeting, or something like that. Anyway, I was thinking the warehouse garden could act like a...safe haven? Where people could come and talk and have a space to take a break from the noise to come back to themselves. They can garden and talk and have little plants to give them a grounding point. It wouldn't be the only thing, of course, I've started up an office as well to help out with that sort of thing. I'll just be around to help get it off the ground mostly, though, I want the humans to have it long term. But I feel like these people shouldn't be forgotten about either." She shrugged and something quick and sad glinted in her eyes. "Even if it's just for a little while. And who knows? It may work, it may not. I feel like the office will stick, just because humans are better with that sort of thing, but if the garden doesn't work out I can always use it as a business. Fake normalcy."  
"An occult force using mundane business as a front?" Azrafell drawled. "It'll never work, my dear."  
"Not occult," she quipped, sinking back down onto the bench. She threw her limbs out like she always did and finished her wine. Did she even know how to sit? "So? What do you think?"  
"I think… it'll do a lot of Good," Azrafell said. He was staring at her distantly, a realization blooming behind his eyes. He smiled. "Frankly, I'm a little put out."  
She meant it. What she was saying, all the rhetoric about helping people and healing them. She actually meant it!  
Toni laughed. "Should've expected that. You planning on drinking that or are you just holding it for the aesthetic?"  
Azrafell looked down at his glass and as he did something twisted in his gut. Not in a painful way. Just in a curving, twisting way, like some balance had been upset. He looked into the wine, and back up at the Angel.   
But… did that mean… everything she'd said over the years, about Azrafell? No. No, surely not. She might have wanted to mean it. Hell, she might even have thought she meant it. But… no. Not about him.  
His smile faded slightly and he sipped his wine.  
She poured herself another glass, watching lazily as Monty crawled from her shoulder to hover its face in front of Azrafell's. It flicked its tongue at the Demon's nose.  
"Hello," Azrafell said to it. "You know, I've never been particularly gifted with animals."  
"Do you actively want to kill her?"  
"Not actively," Azrafell said. "But my moods are fickle and changeable."  
"Then your fine."  
The snake hovered for another moment before making a move to settle itself on Azrafell's shoulders.  
"I think she likes you," Toni said.  
"Lovely."  
The snake was cool and heavier than he expected.  
"Must be all that Hellfire," Toni chuckled.  
Once Monty settled she slithered over Azrafell's head and curled her's down so that she peered at him upside down.  
"Hello," Azrafell said.   
She hissed and flicked her tongue expectantly.  
"What does she want?" Azrafell asked.  
"A boop."  
"A what?"  
"A boop. That's what I call it anyway. Just tap her on the nose and she'll settle."  
Azrafell shook his head, but acquiesced. "... There."  
The snake seemed pleased, retreating from his line of sight.  
"... Good."  
Toni snickered. "Is it really that bad?"  
"No. No, it's just very… alive."  
"She's a snake, what else is she going to be?"  
He felt the reptile curl its tail around his arm.  
"Yes. Quite. Of course. Yes. It's just that paper is. Um. Rather more… predictable."  
"Too much of one thing is bad for you, Zira. Maybe you need a little less routine."  
"I have a perfectly serviceable degree of routine, thank you."  
"Serviceable still means it could be better."  
"But it could be worse. Animals would make it worse."  
Toni just shook her head.  
Azrafell huffed and patted the python's head. "How did you learn about this… post-traumatic stress?"  
"I...heard about it. Hospitals and miracles go together. And people talk." She took a long drink.  
"That all? That was a… large sip."  
Toni looked at her glass with a distant sort of expression. Despite her languid posture, she seemed more tense than normal, more...dull. "let's just say I have my ways."  
As soon as she spoke, Monty uncoiled herself from Azrafell and made her way back to Toni. She bumped her snout against the Angel's cheek.  
Azrafell looked Toni over. That thing inside him twisted again, but he pushed it down. "Mm. I see."  
Toni reached up and patted the snake. "It's interesting, if you think about it. The reaction to it. After so many years of violence, you'd think they would have realized it sooner."  
"Oh, but it makes perfect sense to me. Humanity cares not a whit for soldiers after they've finished their war. When people are in the midst of their turmoil, they're a banner for a cause. When they lie broken in its wake, they're litter." Azrafell took a deep draught of wine and set the glass aside.  
"I don't think it's humanity so much as...specific people."  
"Your faith is charming," Azrafell said.  
"Someone's got to have it," Toni said with a dry smirk. "With you having enough doubt for the both of us."  
Azrafell chuckled.  
Toni huffed and flipped herself around so that her feet hung off the back of the bench and her head hung down from the front. "...sometimes I wonder if I'd still have it if things were different," she said softly, closing her eyes. "If we hadn't...what do you think it'd be like?"  
"Oh, I think we'd both be insufferable," Azrafell said. "Undoubtedly. You, being allowed to wear black? I shudder to think. And I have a sneaking suspicion that I wouldn't be a very good Angel. That cannot be comfortable," he added, looking her up and down.  
"Don't tell me what's comfortable and what isn't," she quipped  
Monty looked as if she agreed with Azrafell  
The demon shook his head and picked his wine back up. He swirled it gently in the glass, watching the dark liquid turn.  
Toni set her empty one to the side. "Do you want to get dinner?"  
"Dinner? Er - yes, of course. Where did you have in mind?"  
"We could do the Ritz."  
"The Ritz? That's - that is to say - ah. Yes. Of course. Sure."  
Toni smirked and righted herself, passing Monty off to him. "Perfect. Give me five." And with that she sauntered out of the greenhouse.  
Give me five? Azrafell mouthed to himself. He looked at the snake. The snake looked back at him. He finished his wine and waited.  
About five minutes later Toni came back, tugging on a black leather glove. She wore a puffy sleeved, white collared shirt, tucked into pale yellow pants that were cinched with a thick black belt. a greyish-tan wool coat hung off her shoulders down to about her knees and she had small, glittering golden hoops in her ears. "Ready? I think there'll be a table open."  
"As though by a miracle," Azrafell said wryly.  
Toni smirked. "Just leave her on the bench, she'll explore on her own."  
Carefully, he unwound the snake and set her aside. He stood. "After you, my dear."  
Toni quirked an eyebrow at him, but turned and headed out the door.  
Azrafell walked just behind the Angel, watching her. The Ritz was… well, it was frightfully public. Not that Azrafell minded, particularly. Hell didn't often check up. But if Gabriel was as fastidious about conduct as he seemed to be about presentation… "Is this… wise?" he asked, almost before making up his mind to.  
"It's just dinner."  
"Yes, but an Angel and a Demon at the Ritz, of all places? Together?"  
"Head office won't suspect a thing, trust me."  
"If you're sure…"  
Toni glanced down at him. "I am. But if you're so nervous about it…"  
"No, no. It's fine. Angel, it's fine." Azrafell hesitated. "Just this once, I think I can muster up a little faith."  
She smirked. "All right then."  
"Right. Yes."  
They made their way to the parking garage and into Toni's gleaming white Bentley.  
#  
"What is that?" Azrafell asked, looking at the cassette player. "That… music."  
"Have you never heard this?" Toni asked as she sped through the streets. Underground by David Bowie was blasting through the speakers.  
"I don't listen to bebop," Azrafell said.  
Toni stuttered and looked at him with in complete shock. "Bebop?"  
Azrafell shrugged. "What?"  
"If you asked anyone in the whole world, not one would describe David Bowie's music as bebop."  
"Bah. All this new 'pop' music is alike."  
"Oh my God," Toni breathed. She wasn't paying any attention, face cradled in one hand, and looked as if she was dying from the inside out. "You...we have so much to fix, Azrafell. So. Much."  
Azrafell reached out and jerked the wheel to one side, narrowly avoiding an incoming cab. "Would you watch the road please?" He hissed.  
"Right, Right. sorry. I just…what do you listen to?"  
"Good music. Proper music. The classics."  
"That's not the only good music."  
"We shall have to agree to disagree."  
Toni made a face and turned it up.  
Azrafell scowled.   
"You're too stuck in your ways."  
"And you're far too eager to embrace any new fad that comes traipsing along."  
Toni scoffed. "I just appreciate new creation."  
"Well, it won't last. I tell you now, this… Bowie character will burn out in a year or two, tops. There is simply no staying power."  
She shook her head. "You say that now."  
"Because I am right."  
"Oh, you can see the future now?"  
Azrafell opened his mouth, but closed it again, deciding instead to settle on a severe glare.  
Toni finally turned the majority of her attention back to the road.  
#  
The lights of the Ritz, streaming down through the crystal chandeliers, shot Toni's halo of red hair through with gold.   
The waiter had taken their order. Azrafell and Toni were momentarily alone, in a little bubble in the middle of the world.   
Toni was swirling a glass of champagne, reclined in her seat and looking out over the tables of people behind them. Her gloves sat on the table beside her and as she fiddled with her glass Azrafell caught a glimpse of something new. Black with red undertones, a snake coiled in a vague diamond shape rested on the inside of her wrist.   
"You have a tattoo," he said, thoughtlessly.  
"Mm? Oh, yeah, I do."  
"When did you get that?"  
She glanced down at her wrist. "A couple years ago. Despite everything, I still like the design."  
"May I… see?"  
"Sure," she said, holding out her wrist. "Isn't anything you haven't seen before."  
Azrafell took her hand in both of his, careful of his claws. He peered at it. "Finely detailed," he said. "Did you copy this from an illumination? It has the style."  
"A what?"  
He looked up at her from under his brows. "A medieval manuscript. The illustrations were called illuminations."  
Toni frowned and shook her head. "I...no. it's much older than that."  
He looked up at her properly, brows furrowing. His eyes roamed across her face, but only when they found a spot by her ear did his mouth open in realization. "Your mark," he murmured. "Your Beast's mark."  
She smirked a little dryly and took her hand back. "Figured if I couldn't keep the eyes, I might as well have some sort of reminder."  
He frowned again. "But why… why would you want a reminder of that?" His voice was soft, almost hoarse, though he wasn't sure why.  
"Wouldn't you?" She asked her expression momentarily hard. "If they took you back after willingly declaring you their enemy? For only being curious?" She shrugged and drank. "Just reminds me that I don't really fit on either side."  
Azrafell's teeth throbbed. He didn't respond except to nod.  
"Besides, snakes are fun...I wonder if I could still use that form...doubt it."  
"Mm… Gabriel wouldn't let you keep it, if I know him."  
"Probably not. Still. It would have been interesting."  
"Mm."  
Toni paused, looking over his face slowly, like she was analyzing something he couldn't see.  
"What?" he asked. He frowned. "Cr-Toni, what?"  
"Have you ever thought of shaving it?" Toni said, resting her chin in her hand. "Or braiding it up?"  
Azrafell scratched his beard. "Every once in a great while," he said. "Depending on the time… and the role I was filling."  
"Mm. I never liked them. They make me look like a suburban minister."  
Azrafell smiled briefly, no more than a quick flash of teeth. "They really do."  
"Well I never said you had to agree with me."  
"But when you're right, you're right."  
She rolled her eyes.  
"You are a minister, of sorts," Azrafell mused. "Your congregation is just… leafier than most."  
"A minister and gardener are not the same thing Azrafell. I don't just talk to my plants...even if it helps."  
"It does?" Azrafell asked.  
"A little bit. They're living too, you know. They're just...less lively. But they enjoy a compliment or two just as much as anything else."  
"How do you keep them so green?" Azrafell asked. "Do you just… miracle them, or…?"  
"What? No, no, you've got to work at it Azrafell. It takes time and water and good soil. Think of it like…like restoring books. You need specific tools and the right environment and patience to make it all work. The greenhouse was a mess to figure out," she sighed, finishing her drink. "I was reviving plants so often that I got reprimanded for using too many frivolous miracles. But I figured it out eventually. It's a shame you don't get to see the new addition, really. Doesn't come in until tomorrow."  
"What is it?" he asked.  
" Pink Camellia," Toni said as she reclined in her chair. "It's an easy order, really, but they have their significance. Gorgeous flowers, they tend to like the winter sun better. I don't have many now that do, so I figured I'd have some for color late in the year."  
"Oh. Those sound nice." Azrafell wasn't sure why Crowley was looking at him like that. Did it mean something? He didn't follow… flowers.   
"I'll give you one once they've grown. You could use some color."  
"I think my current palette is fine, thank you," Azrafell said primly. "... But I appreciate the thought."  
"Oh, I'm still giving you one," Toni said with a smirk. "I could go darker if you want. Maybe...a purple Calla Lily? Or chocolate Cosmos? Both would fit in well enough, but the red in the Cosmos would look great with all the hardwood."  
Azrafell laughed. "Come on, Angel, you're just making things up now. Those sound like cocktails."  
"They're real! They're just variations of the flowers you're used to." Toni rolled her eyes. 'Really, Zira, you should learn a little more about the world outside your shop. It has some perks."  
"I know what I need to know to survive," Azrafell said. He propped his chin on his hand.  
"Tell you what, I'll surprise you and leave some instructions so it doesn't die. Deal?"  
"... All right, why not? You have yourself a deal."  
Toni grinned and held out a hand. "Shake on it?"  
Azrafell hesitated, but gripped Toni's hand in his. There was still a bit of soil on her fingers, and his claws dimpled her skin. He found himself studying her face, the golden eyes, framed by the beak like nose and prominent cheekbones that were so familiar and yet so foreign to him. He found he desperately wanted to commit it all to memory, right here in this moment. Just as it was. He didn't know when, but he had started to smile. "Whatever you say, angel."


	36. Soft Hands, Old Wounds

It was dark. Crowley wasn't sure how long it had been dark, but it was now. Azrafell's shop seemed to glitter, dotted as it was with little candles and tealights. If Crowley had been in a more sensible mood, he might have made a comment about old paper and fire hazards.   
But all in all, Crowley wasn't feeling sensible in the least.   
He and Azrafell sat on the rug in front of the little wood-burning furnace, bathed in its glow. Neither of them said much. Neither of them needed to. After six thousand years, sometimes all a person needs to communicate is silence.  
He leaned in close, resting his head of the shorter entities shoulder, watching the fire light dance over the shadows.  
Azrafell extracted his manicured claws from the Angel's fingers and breathed deeply. "More wine?"  
"Sure."  
Azrafell leaned forward to grab the bottle, but as he did, his mouth twisted into a tight grimace. "Ach."  
"You all right?" Crowley asked with a frown, leaning forward.  
"Mm. Fine, fine. That rest and Chamomile just didn't do as much for me as I'd hoped. It's nothing." Azrafell poured a glass and held it out to Crowley.  
The Angel's expression did not change as he set it aside. "Azrafell…"  
"What?" Azrafell said, tetchily.  
“you're lying again.”  
"So what if I am?" Azrafell muttered.   
Crowley reached a hand up and rested it on his shoulder. "You can talk to me, you know. I hear Angels are pretty good listeners."  
"It's not worth ruining our evening," Azrafell said, softly.  
"Azrafell, we have years at least. better to talk about it before the world really ends." He offered the demon a soft smile.  
"It's nothing," he said. "Honestly, just more side effects from the…" he paused, searching for a word, as apparently Fall wouldn't do. "The… Breaking."  
Crowley quirked an eyebrow at him. "Then that's certainly more than nothing."  
"It's been six thousand years," Azrafell said plaintively. "It's—it's old news."  
"And you're still suffering from it. Who knows, maybe if you tell me there's something I could do to help."  
Azrafell bit his lip.  
"It couldn't hurt to try."  
Azrafell stood, weight on the balls of his feet like he might run. He did look past Crowley at the door for a long time before eventually saying, so very quietly, "it's my… ah. My wings."  
"What about them?"  
"They…well, they broke. When Hastur and Ligur pulled me down, they broke. And then they healed, and then when they were trying to figure out how to make me fall, Beelzebub and Dagon broke them again, and again, and again, like it was the breaking that would jumpstart the whole process. But it never did. And every time they broke, they healed worse and worse." Azrafell's eyes were glazed as he looked out at the dark. "And they just haven't been quite right since."  
"...can I take a look?"  
Azrafell blinked, eyes clearing as he returned to the present. "It's not pretty."  
"Pretty's a matter of opinion," Crowley said as he stood, circling around to Azrafell's back. "Come on, let's have a go."  
"Fine. Fine." Azrafell sounded very tired. He closed his eyes, braced himself on the back of his chair, and with a small, strangled sound, opened his wings.   
That… was not how wings were supposed to look. They had the rough shape, but…. The feathers were a gleaming white, sterille and blanched enough to be the envy of any Angel. They seemed like they would be soft to the touch. But… the way they bent. Twisted, bowed, and warped. Extending them all the way would have been an agony. Out of the corner of Crowley's eye, they flickered and distorted, though they seemed solid enough when he looked at them dead on.   
Something about their very presence in the room made his stomach turn.  
The wings twitched, a seemingly involuntary spasm, and the edges of the feathers blurred.  
Crowley frowned, quiet, confused and unsettled. "This is just from when they pulled you?"  
"No… no. For all their hatefulness, Hastur and Ligur didn't do this," Azrafell said. He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if preparing to tuck them away again.  
"Wait. Just… how in Heaven did you fly us out of that building?" He muttered quietly. "The way they're broken…"  
"I just… did," Azrafell said. "I couldn't exactly leave you there. What choice did I have? So I flew."  
Crowley reached out towards one of them, hand hovering just above. "Can i?"  
Azrafell glanced over his shoulder with a wince. "Be my guest."  
Crowley nodded and touched one, running his fingers over every bump of ill-set bone and feather. His heart sank as he quietly cursed the entities responsible and a slow, familiar boiling anger simmering in his chest. "Well I'm not sure if there's much I can do," he said, laying a hand between Azrafell's shoulders. "But I can try and take the edge off."  
Azrafell nodded. "A—all right."  
The Angel inhaled deeply and closed his eyes to concentrate. He could feel the warmth radiating from his fingers as he traced them from the center of Azrafell's back to the tips of both of his wings.  
Azrafell shuddered under his hand, and the edges of Crowley's vision warped again.   
"There," Crowley sighed, stepping back. "I wish there was more I could do to help, but that'll beat chamomile tea at least."  
Azrafell nodded. Hunched over the back of his chair, the Demon was breathing hard.  
Crowley frowned and knelt down by his head. "You okay, Zira?"  
"Mm-hm. Fine." He looked up at Crowley's disbelieving expression and smiled a little. The expression was somewhere between grateful and melancholy. "Really," he said. "It's just—it's just that no-one's ever touched them before. I mean, not like that."  
Crowley smiled and cupped Azrafell's cheek in his palm.  
"Thank you, Crowley," Azrafell said.  
"Of course. Come on, sit back down. No sense in running off now."  
Azrafell did sit, wincing as he put his wings away.  
Crowley settled next to him, handing over the glass that he had poured with one hand and rubbing at the base of his neck with the other. "You need it more than me,"   
Azrafell took it, swirling it before taking a sip. "Thank you."  
"Mmhm." Crowley scooted behind Azrafell and started kneading absently on his upper back.   
Azrafell arched away from him, inhaling sharply. "What are you doing?"  
"Massaging. why, does it hurt?"  
"Yes!... But not… necessarily in a bad way," he added. "Just, ah. Caught me off guard."  
"Do you want me to stop?"  
Azrafell hesitated. "... No."  
Crowley chuckled and continued, adding tiny flashes of healing love with each press.  
When the night finished, and the Demon stood to walk the Angel to the door, Crowley was shocked by how different Azrafell looked. It was nothing blatant, nothing on the surface, but still undeniably, concretely there. His shoulders were softer, his back was less rigid. He lacked a hardness that Crowley had always just assumed was a streak of Cruelty inherent to all Demonkind.   
So much of Azrafell's posture was pain. For six thousand years.  
Quietly, Crowley made a promise to himself to help keep it at bay however he could. He took Azrafell's hand in his and gave it a squeeze. "Goodnight, Zira.'  
"Goodnight, angel." Azrafell squeezed back.


	37. The Beginning of the End

It was not a dark and stormy night.   
The sky was clear, the stars twinkling.   
But that didn't mean the forces of Evil weren't still Lurking.   
Well. Evil in the loosest sense of the word. Azrafell hadn't really identified himself by Hell's terminology in about ten years. He was smoking a cigarette, leaning on the hood of an idling taxi. The driver's eyes were glazed. He wouldn't recall a thing.   
Mist crept over the ground of the little churchyard as Azrafell Lurked. Lurking was one of the perks of demonhood that he really enjoyed. Something about gathering shadow and unease about himself like a blanket, using it to skate by unnoticed but for a vague sense of menace… it felt safe.   
Azrafell Lurked, and waited for the other party to arrive.  
They came out of the soil, pushing straight up and through it like they were riding some sort of earthy elevator.   
Hastur dusted dirt off the frog on his head. Ligur didn't bother, letting the soil sit on him like a patchy cloak. "Hail Satan," They growled.   
"Gentlemen," Azrafell said. "So good of you to join me."  
"We asked you to meet us," Hastur said.   
"So you did."  
"We must recount the deeds of the day," Hastur said.  
Ligur smiled a small, mirthless smile. "Today I planted doubt into the conscience of a politician. Convinced him that one small bribe wouldn't hurt. Within the year, we shall have him."  
"Today, I tempted a priest," Hastur said proudly. "As he looked at the pretty girls on the pavement I placed Lust in his heart. Within a decade, we shall have him."  
"Admirable, gentlemen. Truly," Azrafell said.  
"And you? What have you done to secure souls for our master?"  
"I have stolen several ancient and powerful tomes, locking them away from human hands." He held up a hand. "No, don't applaud, please."  
(Azrafell had been spending substantially more time with a certain Angel recently, and certain mannerisms of said certain Angel were beginning to rub off.)  
Ligur glared. "And? What has that done to secure souls?"  
"Books contain knowledge, gentlemen. And the rarest books contain the most powerful knowledge of all." Azrafell spread his hands. "By taking that knowledge away from humanity, by halting its spread, I make humanity that much easier to claim. After all, the less a person knows, the easier they are to corrupt." He shrugged. "What are we doing here?"  
Ligur's glare intensified, but he cast a side glance and Hastur and nodded. "This."  
Hastur lifted a wicker basket. Azrafell looked at it and sobered. "No."  
"Yes." Hastur leered.  
"Already?"  
"Yes."  
And they want… me."  
"Yes," purred both demons in unison. They seemed to be enjoying it immensely.  
"What's wrong?" Ligur asked, tilting his head at Azrafell. "I would think you'd enjoy the chance to carry this through. Any demon would give someone's right arm for this chance."  
"Oh, it's not that I'm ungrateful for the opportunity," Azrafell assured them. "Just… doesn't it seem a bit, ah, soon?"  
"It's perfect. Take it."  
Azrafell sighed and took the picnic basket. "Yes, yes, very well."  
"We’ll be keeping our eyes on you," Ligur said, and Azrafell couldn't tell if it was a promise, a threat, or some mixture of the two.  
"Great. Thanks for letting me know." He rolled his shoulders as they twinged, and hefted the basket in his grip."So. Suppose I'll be off."  
The pair just stared at him, quiet and brooding in their sullen silence.  
"Good." Azrafell turned and got back into the taxi. "Au revoir, Gentlemen."  
The cab door closed, and Azrafell and the occupant of the picnic basket drove away into the dark.  
#  
Crowley watched Monty as she coiled around his arm. He swirled his wine in his glass. Night was falling on London. All was well.  
His phone rang.  
He waited until the very last ring to pick it up, feet propped on his desk and arm splayed out over the side. "Now, who could be calling me at this ungodly hour?"  
"Crowley, it's me," Azrafell said. His voice hissed and crackled, as though the demon was using an ancient landline. "We need to talk."  
Something in his tone gave the Angel pause. "This isn’t about what I think it is, is it?"  
"Well, that depends. Do you think it's about the End of the World?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Thank you for indulging us and joining us on this journey of hi-jinks and tomfoolery, we had a lot of fun bringing it to life. We hope you enjoyed it! Stay safe, be kind, and have a good one!


End file.
